


Kidnappers, Clankers, and the Coming Thing

by Julia456



Category: Leviathan - Scott Westerfeld, The Adventures of Brisco County Jr.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-04 19:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14027175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julia456/pseuds/Julia456
Summary: Being a Thrilling True Account of the Adventures of Brisco County, Jr., Lord Bowler, Dylan Sharp, and Aleksandar Hohenberg, at the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exposition. (Previously posted on FF.N)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a crossover, in that it mixes both the _Leviathan_ trilogy of YA novels and the axed-before-its-time TV show _The Adventures of Brisco County Jr._ , but it's really a _Leviathan_ fic that features special guest appearances by the _Brisco_ world. That's not what I set out to do, but it's what the story wanted. *shrug*
> 
> I know of exactly 2 people on planet Earth who have both read _Leviathan_ AND watched _Brisco_ (1. me, and after some cajoling, 2. my BFF), so here's a quick primer:
> 
> _Leviathan_ is adventure, dieselpunk, crossdressing, royalty on the run, mad science, snarky sidekicks, nosy reporters, romance, girls being awesome, talking animals, dazzling illustrations, World War I, and flying whale airships.
> 
> _Brisco_ is adventure, steampunk, comedy, Westerns, mysteries, tongue-in-cheek anachronisms galore, sci-fi, romance, a wonder horse, unlikely allies, killer theme music, and Pete's Piece. ( _Nobody touches Pete's Piece!_ )
> 
> If you like one, therefore, you'll probably like the other. I highly advise Leviathaneers to track down _Brisco_ on DVD (and sometimes YouTube). And _Brisco_ fans, definitely give _Leviathan_ a try. Preferably before you read this fic. :D

 

They are undermanned, underequipped, and underprepared – but one could say the same regarding any troop of the Kaiser's soldiers. Indeed, Jäger thinks grimly, fixing his tie, one could say the same about the German Empire itself. 

May, 1915. These are dire days.

He gives his disguise a last check, smoothing his hair in the mirror and tugging the waistcoat straight, then turns to his men, lined up for final inspection before they depart the relative safety of this place for the certain danger of the city. Jäger is somewhat skeptical of their abilities.

They were chosen for their other skills; subterfuge is no one's strength but his. All the same, if they do not perform to satisfaction tonight...

"Everyone understands their role," he says – not asks.

"Yes, sir!" the five men say in unison, crisp as any commander could wish.

"Failure tonight is not possible." Jäger paces down the line. He is a hunter as his name suggests. A hunter of men; a killer; a weapon of the Kaiser; and he levels a hunter's chilling stare at each of his men in turn. "We will succeed, or we will not leave San Francisco."

"Yes, sir!"

"The fate of the Empire is in our hands." He pauses at the end of the line. Turns.

At the other end of the line, Schultz is fidgeting with his tie. He catches sight of Jäger and drops his hands to his sides.

Jäger slowly, deliberately paces back to him. Schultz swallows. Jäger steps in closer to the sergeant.

"Failure is death," he says, his voice low, each word cold and sharp.

Schultz swallows again. His mustache twitches nervously. "Yes sir."

This is not an entirely acceptable answer. Jäger narrows his eyes. He steps back from the sergeant, preparing to address all of the men again, but stops when the door opens.

Braun enters with the last piece of their preparations tonight: a cowering American man that the lieutenant shoves forward roughly.

The American stumbles and falls, landing on his hands and knees. He looks around fearfully, a lock of brown hair falling into his eyes.

Jäger crouches in front of him. "Hello," he says in English, not unfriendly. "We have been expecting you."

"Hi, I'm Todd," the man says. His voice quavers. "Are you – are you going to kill me?"

Jäger smiles – a cat playing with a wounded bird. "That depends," he says, "on how helpful you are, Todd."

Todd looks around again, then back at Jäger. "Anything you want, sir. Just please – don't kill me. And don't knock me out and hide me in the cellar, either. That's – that's not very pleasant." He adds, in a shuddering whisper, "There are _very_ large spiders."

Jäger puts a hand on the American's shoulder. Todd flinches away, then freezes, obviously worrying that he's upset his captor. Good. "There is no need for unpleasantness," Jäger says, still smiling. "We are all civilized men."

"Okay," Todd says. He hazards a weak smile that collapses into fear moments later. "I mean, yes, very civilized, sir. Anything you want, sir."

The German Empire, with its superior mechanikals, is the height of civilization. These Americans, who have allowed godless Darwinist abominations to proliferate in their land – they are hardly better than the savage Indians who once roamed it.

Jäger withholds his disdain and keeps his smile. "Here is what you must do."

He explains. Todd listens. Todd, of course, agrees. Todd even stands and checks everyone's disguises, making minute adjustments, offering advice on the roles they are to play.

Todd is extremely helpful.

Jäger watches with some satisfaction and a growing sense of confidence. Dire days – but not desperate ones, not yet. Germany will prevail. He will prevail.

He had intended to kill the American, but decides that, when all is said and done, he will knock Todd unconscious and leave him tied up in the cellar, preferably near very large spiders.

Jäger will shortly be lauded as the savior of Germany; he deserves _some_ amusement, after all. 

. . .

**Note:** Todd was in "The Orb Scholar", "And Baby Makes Three" (where he was knocked out, though not placed in a cellar with large spiders), and "Bounty Hunters' Convention". I love ya, Todd!

Jäger and his boys, on the other hand, are all mine. We'll be seeing them again. ;)


	2. Chapter ONE: "I Left My Loris in San Francisco"

" 'The Westerfield Club'," Alek says, reading from one of the fancy brass plates affixed to the gate's stone pillars as their carriage rolls through. " _Westerfield_. That sounds so familiar..."

Deryn rolls her eyes. "Aye, so you've said – a thousand times today. It'd be nice if you'd remember _why_ it's so barking familiar."

Alek merely shakes his head, frowning to himself. Deryn gives up on any conversation with him and instead makes certain Bovril is settled on her shoulder. San Francisco is cold and stuffed with fog this evening; no place for a loris to get lost, even a perspicacious one.

From her seat opposite them, Dr. Barlow says, "It hardly matters. We shall only be spending a few hours here, if that, before returning to the Exposition."

Beside her, Count Volger looks as though he wants to say something unpleasant (for the thousandth time today) about the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, but he satisfies himself with a scowl and a curt, "Unless you mean to spend those few hours in the taxi, perhaps we should disembark."

Deryn rolls her eyes again – this time, when she's safely turned away from the count. Between his fussing and Dr. Barlow's demands, it's been a long trip already. And they still have two more days at the Exposition, and she's almost certain the lady boffin means to accept a last-minute invitation to speak at some museum in Chicago...

"Oh well," she mutters under her breath as she hops down from the hired carriage. Her knee twinges a bit – all this bloody damp weather – and she stands for a moment, scratching Bovril's head. "At least it'll be more time aloft, aye, beastie?"

"More time aloft," it says softly, shivering in the chill evening air. There are electrikal lights aglow everywhere, but all they do is make the fog brighter.

She gives the loris another scratch behind the ears and then falls in beside Alek, who's following Volger and Dr. Barlow inside.

"Rather cold this evening," Alek says to no one in particular, secretly brushing hands with Deryn behind their guardians' backs.

A pleasant shiver goes up her spine. It has sod all to do with the weather.

"Who's this boffin fellow again?" she asks as they're ushered inside the Westerfield Club.

"Professor Albert Wickwire. An inventor, apparently, of the Clanker variety," Dr. Barlow says. "I'll confess I haven't much knowledge of his work. He was most insistent that I attend this advance unveiling of his newest project, however."

Volger harrumphs, but says nothing.

The Club servant shows them to a large library, then bows and whisks himself away. A raised dais has been set up across the far end of the room, with a table that's been draped with sheets so all you can see are mysterious lumps and bumps. A large placard behind it proclaims the thing on the table to be "A Thrilling Glimpse Of The Future!"

Exactly like every sodding display she's seen this week at the Exposition. They've given the different exhibition halls fancy names – the Palace of Agriculture, the Palace of Mines and Metallurgy, the Palace of Food Products – but it's really six hundred thirty-five acres of politicians and boffins and engineers, all loudly pushing themselves forward as the best and most modern in the world.

The only worthwhile inventions being shown, in Deryn's opinion, are the nimble little Clanker flying contraptions and sleekly modern airbeasts that run demonstrations daily from the Athletics-Aviation Field. Since they arrived at the Exposition last week, she's managed to attend all but one of those, and she's on quite friendly terms with the pilots and airmen now, frequently going up as a "special assistant"; that Mr. Art Smith, famous for his aerobatical shows, even let Alek have a go at piloting a gyrothopter once.

She'd love to be in the air right now, that's for bloody certain.

Standing about and chatting in front of the Westerfield Club's "Thrilling Glimpse" is a small crowd of well- to-do folks. Lots of portly men with cigars, lots of boffins with black bowler hats and spectacles, a few ladies awash with feathers and jewels.

Deryn knew what she'd be in for tonight, of course, as soon as Dr. Barlow told her to wear "Dylan's" best suit... but she gives an inward sigh all the same.

"I wonder why the professor chose to show his project here," Alek says, looking around. He seems politely curious – but then, none of the fancy-boots places they've been this week have much impressed him. Even the Exposition's Tower of Jewels elicited no more from him than mild admiration. He might be calling himself a commoner now, Deryn thinks, watching him, but he's still a barking prince at heart. "Why not at the Exposition?"

"Frankly, I have no idea," a cheerful voice says behind them. Deryn turns to see an old man, a complicated set of goggles perched atop his snow-white head and a friendly smile stretching beneath a bristling mustache. "To raise more money, would be my guess. But don't ask me; my daughter's the one who– Ah, Doctor Barlow! You came! Looking lovelier than ever, if I might say so!"

He takes the lady boffin's hand and plants a gallant kiss on her gloved knuckles.

"Professor Wickwire," Dr. Barlow says. Amusement plays at the corners of her mouth. "Of course. I couldn't refuse such a generous invitation, after all."

"It is an _honor_ to have you. Here! One of the great minds of our time! To have you here to see – whatever it is I'm going to show you!" the professor says enthusiastically, if not coherently. "And you brought companions! Outstanding!"

Dr. Barlow makes introductions, and Wickwire shakes hands all around. He's got quite a grip for an old man, Deryn thinks. She likes him, for all that he seems more than a squick dotty.

"Hohenberg?" he says when he gets round to Alek. His eyes light up. "Say, you're that young fellow who worked with Tesla!"

"Um – yes, sir," Alek says. He doesn't light up. Instead, he gets that stiff and princely look on his face, the one he uses to hide the fact that he hates discussing the late Nikola Tesla.

"Brilliant man. _Wonderful_ inventions," the professor says, grinning ear-to-ear before sobering: "The weapons were too destructive for my tastes, but really, some very clever stuff. Shame it killed him."

It was Alek who killed him. And it's Alek who still has sodding nightmares. Deryn coughs and says, "Dr. Wickwire –"

"Oh, I'm not a doctor, son," Wickwire says, still cheerful. He winks at her and holds up a finger. "Just a chemist, physicist, and experimentalist!"

"And to what university do you belong, Professor?" Count Volger asks, coolly polite. "Hm?" the professor says, blinking. "Beg pardon?"

Volger presses further: "Are you currently sitting on a faculty?"

The professor blinks again, then frowns, apparently at a loss. "Am I?"

"Professor," Dr. Barlow says, taking the man's arm, "might I trouble you for a glimpse of your invention? My perspicacious loris is quite interested."

"Is that what those little guys are!" Wickwire exclaims, his enthusiastic grin returning. "I thought they were monkeys."

The lady boffin's loris sniffs. "I haven't much knowledge of his work," it says, sounding twice as snooty as usual.

"It hardly matters," Bovril says from Deryn's shoulder.

The professor's head swivels back and forth between the two lorises as if he's found a wonderful new puzzle and is eager to begin working it out. "Perspicacious... Oh! I get it! Marvelous! Remarkable work, Dr. Barlow, simply remarkable. But yes, right this way!"

Wickwire leads Dr. Barlow towards the shrouded table, leaving the rest of them to their own devices.

That suits Deryn fine. She gives Bovril to Alek and wanders around the room for a bit. There are waiters in sharp red waistcoats carrying trays of food and drinks, much to her delight, and she takes quite a few samples. Eventually, she sees that Dr. Barlow and her loris are peering at the partly-revealed invention, which (no surprise) looks to be some sort of Clankerish collection of metal, gears, and other bits, while Wickwire points things out enthusiastically. Volger, meanwhile, is deep in conversation with a fellow wearing spectacles.

Perfect.

She catches Alek's eye across the room and nods in the direction of the door. He grins, then quickly schools his expression and puts his back to her.

Deryn slips out of the room and waits in the hall, half-hidden behind a barking enormous Oriental vase holding a fabricated fern nearly twice as big, while she munches on a last _hors d'oeuvre_.

After a minute, Alek appears, and together they start down the hall. No discussion needed; they've done this before, after all.

It's pure dead easy to sneak off at a party. And much more fun than listening to boffins blether on about science.

Deryn tries a few doors along the way, but all of them seem to be locked. "Where's Bovril?" she asks, keeping her voice low.

"I left it with Dr. Barlow," he says, also speaking quietly. "It wanted to examine Professor Wickwire's machine."

"What is his machine?"

"I'm not certain. Some sort of transmitter, I think."

"Lovely," she says, losing interest, and then – "Oi, this one's open!"

They check to make certain the hallway and the unlocked room are empty, then duck inside, shutting the door securely behind them. It's an office. The walls are lined with bookshelves, which are filled with thick, dull- looking books, and the huge desk in the middle – also stuffed with books and papers – is sitting on a fancy rug.

Deryn's considering the possibility of getting Alek up on that desk (preferably with his shirt open), when he takes her by the hands and pulls her towards the bookshelves.

"We only have a few minutes," he says.

She gives him a suspicious squint. "Why?"

He looks away, embarrassed. "I want to hear about the professor's machine." She snorts. "You daft Clanker."

He doesn't try to refute it. Instead, he leans forward and kisses her lightly, gently, on the mouth – enough to make electricity crackle the air between them. "We might make up the time later... if you sneak into my hotel room," he whispers. His breath is hot on her skin, and what he's proposing sets her innards alight.

She grins and pushes him back a half-step, so that his spine is pressed against the shelves and one of his knees is between her legs. "Aye, I think I will."

His hands settle on her hips and pull her closer yet; he smirks. "Are you certain that you can manage?" he asks, teasing. "There aren't any balconies to leap between."

"Just you sodding wait," she murmurs, brushing her lips over his jaw and around to his ear. She nips at his earlobe.

"Deryn," he says, a plea barely louder than a breath. His fingers tighten on her hips; she obliges him by rocking forward.

"Just wait, love," she says into his hair, breathing in the warm scent of him. Blisters, he makes her dizzy sometimes. She draws back. Moves to kiss him properly –

\- and the doorknob rattles a half-second before the door is shoved open.

Deryn and Alek both jump, but at least they jump apart. And at least they're not too mussed yet. The last time Volger found them, she had her shirt most of the way off and her bindings half undone, which was a bit tricky.

But it isn't Volger, she sees straightaway. It's one of the men from the library, wearing a black suit, a string tie, and a frown. He sizes them up and takes a few strides into the room, demanding, "All right, what're you boys up to?"

"Nothing, sir," Alek says. Deryn could kick him; saying _Nothing_ is the surest way to make people think Something.

"We're a bit lost, is all," she says quickly, trying to fix the damage. "We went looking for the head and got turned around."

The man raises one eyebrow. "The what?"

"The loo," she says, then remembers Americans have a different name for it, though she doesn't remember what that is. "Um – the lavatory."

That gets his other eyebrow to hike up as well. "You were looking for the john, and just happened to end up in an attorney's office instead. With the door shut. Lurking in the corner."

Deryn meets his eyes straight on and steady, daring him to call her a liar. "Aye, that's it exactly."

"Uh-huh," the man says. He has a sharpish nose and a square chin; twenty years ago, he might have been quite handsome. Now there's more gray than brown in his hair, and the shadow of a beard on his jaw only makes him look tired, not rakish. "Who are you kids here with?"

"We aren't children," Alek says, indignant.

"Uh-huh." The man shifts his feet to a wider stance and puts his hands on his hips. He's got a revolver holstered under his jacket, Deryn sees with a jolt. Blisters! This is San Francisco they're in, not the Wild West! He's not going to _shoot_ them, is he?

"But you did come with someone. The British lady doctor, right? And the German fellow with the –?" The man makes a gesture at his face to indicate a great, bristling mustache.

"He's Austrian," Alek says stiffly. "As am I."  
"Right. Very fancy." The man nods in the direction of the open door. "So let's go ask _them_ what you're doing."

Deryn exchanges a quick glance with Alek. He's doing his best to keep a blank expression, but she can see the hint of panic in his eyes.

It's pure dead easy to sneak off at a party, all right - but that doesn't mean they haven't been told not to.

"Out, both of you," the man orders.

But no one has a chance to move a step, because from down the hall there's a sudden flash of light – and then, half an instant later, a titanic **BOOM** that knocks everyone to the floor.


	3. Chapter ONE, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amanda Wickwire was seen in the pilot episode and never again, though her right hook shall live on in memory. Professor Wickwire's airship was only seen in the series finale, "High Treason, Part 2", where it was the source of many excellent Led Zeppelin jokes. (And also caused a character to exclaim, "It's a flying whale!" Many LOLs from me on the rewatch.)
> 
> Now for a historical factoid: Art Smith, the PPIE's "aeronaut", was a real person. He replaced Louis Beachey, who died early in 1915 when a stunt went awry. Smith was pretty awesome: he pioneered night skywriting – with flares! Plus, on a tour of Japan, he inadvertently inspired a young man named Honda Soichiro to pursue a career in machinery.

Alek finds himself face-down on the carpet, his ears ringing and his attic, as Deryn would say, just a little scrambled. For a moment he doesn't remember what happened. Then it begins to come back.

There was an explosion –

He shakes his head, trying to clear it, even as Deryn grabs his arm and hauls him upright. The office swims and he puts a hand out, holding onto the bookshelves to regain his balance. The bookshelves are much emptier now, since most of their contents are lying spilled across the floor.

The man with the gun is gone. Or did Alek imagine that encounter? "Alek! Blisters, are you all right?"

"Yes," he says, though he isn't certain. He thinks perhaps he's hit his head again – things have that same dreamlike feel, and Deryn's voice sounds as though it comes from kilometers away. He looks at the papers scattered around the room, wondering how they got there.

Nevertheless, he pushes off from the shelf towards the door when Deryn tugs on his sleeve, saying, "Come on!"

The hallway is in chaos. It's filled with acrid smoke and panicked people, who seem to be fleeing in every direction simultaneously. He fights to stay with Deryn. Some of the gentlemen he recognizes from the library –

_The library._

Suddenly, everything snaps back into focus. He pushes past a gasping woman, his heart in his throat. Wickwire's unknown machine. Explosion. Barlow, Bovril, Volger.

_Mein Gott,_ he thinks, _let them not have still been in the library. Let Volger have noticed that we snuck away; let him have come looking for us. Let –_

A gunshot. Two. Three. Shrieks. Cries. And then he and Deryn are in the library... or what's left of it.

A rather large hole has been blasted into one wall, with the majority of the debris blown outwards, into the Westerfield Club's courtyard. Small fires are blazing here and there, among piles of toppled books, but that's not what draws Alek's attention. Neither is the old-fashioned shoot-out going on in the courtyard, apparently between the man with the gun and the... the waiters, who are trying to reach a passenger walker.

No. It's the figure sheltering behind the overturned table, blood soaking into his sleeve and a very distressed loris clinging to his head, hampering his efforts to remove his jacket and stop the bleeding.

"Count Volger!" Alek cries. He moves to cross the library – but Deryn grabs his jacket and hauls him back. A fraction of a second later, a volley of bullets crack into the bookshelves, perilously close by.

"Aye, but where's the lady boffin?" she asks, then stoops to draw the knife she keeps tucked in her boot. "Sod it all, never mind!"

 "What are you –"

"He needs help!"

For a moment Alek thinks she means Volger, but of course she charges through the breach to assist the man with the gun.

Instead of rushing out unarmed, Alek ducks his head and hurries to Volger's side, reaching the safety of the overturned table just as bullets thud into the thick, fabricated wood.

God's wounds, he didn't need so much excitement tonight. He'd been hoping for a few minutes alone with Deryn and an interesting lecture. Now he's given himself another concussion, Volger is hurt, and Deryn is being shot at by waiters.

"Count! Where are you injured?" he says in German, trying to catch Volger's sleeve. It was obvious after even a cursory glance that the loris isn't Bovril, but Alek is presently more concerned about the blood than his missing beastie.

"If you wish to help, you could remove this creature," the count says through clenched teeth.

Alek blinks and then grabs Dr. Barlow's loris by the scruff of its neck, lifting it away from Volger's head. It clings to fistfuls of the count's hair, yelping and yipping like Tazza, and Alek nearly forgets the shoot-out going on behind them in his struggle to pry the loris' tiny claws loose.

"Where's Sharp?" Volger demands, pulling away and losing some hair in the process.

"Out there," Alek says. The loris wraps its limbs around his upper arm with terrified strength; he winces and tries to shift it onto his shoulder. "Where's Dr. Barlow?"

Volger's response is buried beneath a sudden increase in noise. In the courtyard, an engine throttles up even as the exchange of gunfire quickens pace. Deryn and the man with the gun are shouting to each other over the din.

Alek hazards a glance around the bullet-chewed edge of the table. As he does, Deryn steps out from behind the cover of a half-wrecked walker and throws her knife at two waiters struggling to load Professor Wickwire's mysterious invention into the walker. The hilt of her knife strikes one of the waiters on the forehead; his eyes roll up and he staggers, dropping his end of the machine. It hits the ground with a nasty _clunk!_

Instantly, another waiter begins shouting orders in German. Two of the others break off and hurry to help get the invention and the wounded man aboard, while the waiter giving orders continues to pepper Deryn and the man's positions with gunfire.

Then he, too, climbs into the passenger walker – though not before pulling the pin from a grenade and tossing it towards the Westerfield Club's ruined library. It plinks, bounces, and rolls to a stop in the debris of the courtyard.

Mere feet from Deryn.

It hardly takes more than the space of a breath for the grenade to explode, and yet to Alek it lasts a terrible eternity – knowing he cannot possibly reach Deryn in time, knowing that she is about to be ripped away from him. 

But even as the grenade falls, the man with the gun abandons his sheltered position to rush Deryn's. Slams into her. His momentum sends them both flying, tumbling, to the ground – 

\- the grenade explodes in a flash of fire, and Alek instinctively hides his face, and when he looks again -

\- Deryn and the man are both somehow, impossibly, wondrously _safe_.

And, of course, the waiters' passenger walker is disappearing into the fog-shrouded streets of San Francisco.

"Barking spiders!" Deryn says, scrambling to her feet and vigorously dusting off her jacket. "Thanks, sir."

The man with the gun is still sprawled on the ground. He coughs, groans, grimaces, and waves off her gratitude – though he accepts the hand she offers. "Anytime, kid," he says as she hauls him upright.

Alek leaves Volger and moves to Deryn's side. He would like to examine her head-to-toe, gather her into a fierce hug, and kiss her until he's certain she's alive and well, but of course he can't worry for _Dylan_ that way.

And besides: she would hate the fuss.

"Are you all right?" he asks instead, trying to sound like a friend and not a worried beau. "Aye, fine," she says impatiently. "But those Clanker bastards are getting away!"

"Yeah. Yeah, they sure are. With the professor and his invention and a hell of a head start," the man with the gun says. He seems to be in no great rush; he grimaces and rotates his shoulder, looking around the courtyard with sharp eyes. "Not much we can do about that right now. And they grabbed someone else, too – a woman. Didn't see who."

Deryn looks around, too. "You don't reckon – the lady boffin?"

"They took her," Count Volger says, joining them. One hand is clamped tightly to the wound on his arm; his face, as he stares after the vanished walker, is a hard mask. "Damn them," he adds in German, but so softly that Alek thinks he doesn't mean to be heard.

Alek clears his throat. "And what about Bovril?"

Dr. Barlow's loris digs its claws into Alek's jacket and rambles, "My perspicacious loris is quite interested. Trouble you. Look at your invention. Loris. Trouble. _They come not single spies, but in battalions_. Unhand me!"

"Bovril? Is that another one of the monkey things?" the man with the gun says, nodding at the loris while reloading his pistol. "I saw one hanging on the professor."

"They're perspicacious lorises, sir," Deryn says. "And aye, that was probably Bovril."

She sounds furious and frightened all at once. Alek feels much the same and moves slightly closer to her. She glances at him sidelong, her blue eyes saying volumes, then looks away again.

"By the way – Brisco County, Jr., at your service," the man says. He sticks a hand out and Alek shakes it automatically, introducing himself as he does. "I'm a U.S. Marshal. Sorry about the, uh, mix-up earlier. We were looking for German spies, you kids were sneaking around, he was _sprechen Sie Deutsch_..."

"Indeed," Volger says with a hard look at Alek. "An understandable mistake."

Alek keeps his face impassive. They've larger problems than a bit of unauthorized sneaking around.

Deryn likewise shakes hands and makes her introductions to Marshal County. Apparently oblivious to Volger's disapproving stares, County claps her on the shoulder and asks, "Where'd you learn to throw a knife like that, kid?"

"The Royal Air Service," she says, lifting her chin. "I was a midshipman." "Huh. Go figure." County turns to Volger.

"Wildcount Volger. You'll forgive me if I don't shake your hand," Volger says, dry, still gripping his arm. He has gone rather pale, Alek notes, worried.

"Yeah, you need to have that looked at," County says. He turns around, scanning the courtyard for something. "When Soc gets here – there he is!"

The marshal whistles loudly and waves at someone hurrying in from the street – a balding, bespectacled man in a conservative suit. He's accompanied by several police officers and Club servants, some of them carrying buckets of water to douse lingering flames. As he draws closer, Alek recognizes him from an earlier introduction in the library, before he'd snuck off to join Deryn.

The man has a peculiar name, Alek remembers. Something Greek. Euripides, Sophocles – ah! Mr. Socrates Poole, an attorney or somesuch. Presumably the "Soc" referred to by Marshal County.

Mr. Poole is out of breath when he arrives. He hands over a heavy brown gun belt to County. "Brisco! Are you all right? Don't tell me they got away!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." County turns to the police officers, buckling on the gun belt. "Get on the wireless. Tell the checkpoints to stop any walkers with gunshot damage – hey, you guys are Clankers, what make was that bucket of bolts?"

Volger, still a cavalry officer at heart, has never taken much interest in passenger walkers. Alek, on the other hand, is a walker pilot and has been haunting the Palace of Transportation as well as the mile-long race track since his arrival at the Exposition. American walkers are prominently displayed at both.

"I believe it was a Packard, sir," he says.

"Right, a Packard full of bullet holes. Should be pretty easy to spot."

The police officers give a ragged chorus of "yessir" and run off, badges and buttons glinting.

County's not finished issuing orders. "Soc, get Volger here to a doctor."

Mr. Poole nods earnestly, but Volger's eyes narrow. He says, coldly, "First, I believe, an explanation is due."

County scratches at the back of his neck. "Well, see, Soc or I could probably sew you up, but a doctor has actual _training_ –"

"Quite droll," Volger says. He has gone much too pale, and the dark stain on his shirtsleeve is much too large; there is, however, nothing but steel in his voice: "Do you believe this is a time for jokes? Britain's preeminent fabricator – the granddaughter of Charles Darwin himself – has been kidnapped by, as you claim, German spies. A presumably dangerous machine and its inventor are likewise in their hands. Your building is in ruins, and so is, I would assume, your grand and clever scheme for preventing exactly this outcome."

County eyes him for a moment, then clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Fair enough. A few weeks ago, I was contacted by Wickwire's daughter Amanda. She was worried the Germans were going to make a move on the professor while he was in town for the Expo."

Mr. Poole says, helpless, "We arranged this whole – unveiling – to try to keep him _safe_ from the Germans."

Not entirely too low to be heard, Deryn mutters, "Bollixed _that_ up."

"Why do they want him so badly?" Alek asks. They must want him quite badly indeed, to stage an assault on a posh club in the middle of San Francisco.

"He sold von Zeppelin an airship in '94," County says. "They've kept an eye on him ever since, and once the war started... Short version: they want him to make weapons."

Deryn looks at the marshal askance. "But the war is over."

"Not until the Kaiser surrenders," Poole corrects. He pushes his spectacles up with one finger, looking and sounding very much the lawyer.

Unfortunately, it's the truth. Germany has been brought to the negotiating table, but they haven't signed anything yet. As for Austria-Hungary, Emperor Franz Joseph – intractably loyal to oaths, regardless of consequences – has likewise refused to acknowledge defeat. The shooting may have largely ceased, but technically, the war continues.

County adds, "And I'm guessing that the Germans think the professor's invention can still turn the tide in their favor."

"Blisters," Deryn says, her eyes widening. "It'd take something sodding huge to pull them out of the hole they're in now!"

"A Chiroptera mechanika, as it were," the loris says loudly. Then it cackles madly. "Trouble you. In battalions. Exactly, my dear!"

There's a moment of silence as everyone pauses to stare at the loris on Alek's shoulder. Alek wonders if perhaps the creature ought to be examined by a physician, too.

In the pause, sirens can be heard: faint, but drawing nearer. Presumably the city's firemen.

"Wickwire thinks big," County says, picking up the conversation. "And he doesn't always know what he's got. For what it's worth, Amanda is convinced that whoever has this thing can win any war they want."

Alek catches Deryn's eye. He is suddenly and resolutely certain that they are _meant_ to be here on this night - that they are meant to stop this last desperate action of the Kaiser to prolong the war, equally as much as they were meant to prevent Tesla's mad, brutal plot to end it.

Having Bovril and Dr. Barlow in peril is awful on a personal level, of course, but knowing that the war could reignite...

"If you're going after them, sir," he says, facing Marshal County again, "we're coming along."

"Aye," Deryn says simply, but the word brims with determination.

Mr. County hesitates. "Uh, yeah... I don't know, boys... This is pretty much guaranteed to get ugly."

"Foolish, of course," Volger says briskly, "but you are unlikely to dissuade them. And they are occasionally more capable than they appear. They may be useful to you."

High praise indeed. And unspoken permission for Alek and Deryn to carry on as they wish. "Thank you, Count," Alek says softly.

The count gives Alek a nod that implies a full bow, then turns to Mr. Poole. "A surgeon's services were offered."

"Oh, yes, right," Poole says. "There were several in the library, luckily. Everyone's been moved to the east wing –"

"Could you also have Dr. Barlow's loris examined," Alek says – not asks – lifting the creature from his shoulder and depositing it on Mr. Poole's.

The loris chitters manically and immediately climbs atop the lawyer's head, clinging there like a rather wide- eyed toupee. "Um... Of course," Mr. Poole says, trying to be agreeable and pry the loris free at the same time. He's successful at neither, and his tone becomes more openly sarcastic: "I'm sure we can find a zoologist... that makes house calls... in the middle of the night."

Mr. Poole and Count Volger begin to walk away.

"And Socrates! Preserve the scene until we get back," Mr. County calls after them. He makes a looping gesture at the entire Westerfield Club courtyard. Poole lifts an acknowledging hand; the other one is still tugging at the loris.

"Come on," County says to Deryn and Alek. He hurries through the courtyard and turns up the street, the two young people following hard on his heels. There is a hum of activity in one direction – lights, people, vehicles of all kind arriving.

They go the other way.

"Where're we bound?" Deryn asks.

"Not too far – a house on Nob Hill." Mr. County brings them to a brightly-lit, relatively busy cross street and stops on the sidewalk. He whistles again, this time lifting a hand to flag a taxi. One immediately appears: a carriage drawn by a fabricated beast. "Your count was right about my plan going up in flames, along with the library," the marshal adds. He gives an address to the driver and hops into the carriage with Deryn and Alek. "Must be getting old. We need a tracker now. Luckily, I know just the guy."

The taxi lurches into motion. Alek tries to resolve his mental image of a Wild West tracker, squinting through the grit of a desert trail, with the high-society mansions of Nob Hill. He is not entirely successful. "There's a tracker living on Nob Hill?"

"Yeah," Mr. County says. He seems pleased. "Lord Bowler, manhunter." Alek looks at Deryn; Deryn looks at him; they both look at Marshal County.

" _Lord Bowler?_ " they ask in unison.


	4. Chapter ONE, part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bowler mentions retiring to a winery in "Bye Bly"; his mansion is on Nob Hill in "A.K.A. Kansas". Lenore turns up in "Hard Rock" – also where we learn Bowler's real name. Brisco's attitude towards motorized vehicles comes from the episode "Steel Horses". Finally, the tooth-spitting line is from "The Bounty Hunters' Convention", though it wasn't Bowler who originally said it.
> 
> The late Julius Carry (who played Lord Bowler) was also known for his role as Sho'Nuff, the Shogun of Harlem, in the 1985 cult classic film The Last Dragon.  
> I should also note that I made Brisco a US Marshal because his daddy was one. I can't really justify it beyond that. ;)

Nob Hill is south of the wharfs and east of the Exposition. It's not a far trip from the Westerfield Club, in terms of distance – and certainly not at the speed their taxi is going.

Deryn doesn't mind the hurry, even though their hired carriage rattles and bumps over the cobblestones, making her knock into Alek every few feet. Right now, she wants to move quickly.

There's nothing clever about rushing into a war, but ever since she caught a last glimpse of the Germans' passenger walker disappearing into the fog, she's been itching to set after it. Bovril and the lady boffin – to say nothing of that dotty, kindly professor – don't deserve to be in those bastards' hands a moment longer than they must.

The taxi reaches the bottom of a hill and promptly goes up another. Deryn can hear the driver urging the beastie on with shouts and a few whipcracks.

A glance out of the windows reveals passing streetlamps struggling to push through the thick night fog. San Francisco is quite foggy, even by London standards; the houses are buried out of sight.

"Walkers must be better at managing the inclines," Alek says, in the absent tone of someone who's got too much on his mind. She resists the urge to touch his hand.

"Yeah, but I don't trust machines. All metal, no brains," Mr. County says. He shrugs out of his jacket, removes the shoulder holster and its pistol, and hands both to Alek. "Here you go, kid, put that on. We'll borrow a gun from Bowler for you, Dylan."

The marshal still has the heavy, tooled leather gun belt buckled around his hips. The revolver holstered there has a carved ivory handle and looks... _comfortable_ , almost, as if it's a weapon he knows as well as his own hand.

Deryn flexes her foot, feeling the rigging knife tucked inside her boot. She reckons she and Mr. County have a few things in common, at least. "My knife's all right, sir."

Alek fumbles with the shoulder holster a bit before getting it in place. "His name isn't really Lord Bowler, is it?"

Only boffins wear bowlers; that's as true as _The sun rises to the east_. Deryn can't think of anyone not a boffin who'd even want to wear a bowler, let alone name themselves after it. "Barking strange thing to call yourself."

Mr. County chuffs in amusement. "No one ever made an issue of it, believe me. It's James Lonefeather. But _don't_ call him that, and don't tell him I told you."

"Fair enough," Alek says, echoing the marshal's earlier words.

The carriage rattles to a stop, and County hastens to open the door. "I just hope he's not out at his vineyard." Alek's eyebrow goes up. "He owns a vineyard."

Deryn's next out of the carriage, glad to be back on solid ground – even if it is sloped strongly. Hills and fog and Clanker trolleys that will run you over in a trice: that's San Francisco. Her knee sends up a warning twinge, which she ignores. There isn't time for it.

"Yeah, in Napa, north of here," the marshal says as Alek disembarks. He hands over some money to the driver along with instructions to wait. "A winery, too. They give tours. Very fancy."

"And this man was a bounty hunter?" Alek asks.

"One of the best." There's a short flight of steps to the front door; County takes them two at a time, while Deryn makes a show of casually strolling up, hoping Alek won't notice she's favoring her knee. "That's why he could afford the vineyard – _and_ why I know he can track a walker across San Francisco."

He raps briskly on the door, which is all carved wood and fancy cut glass and lace curtains behind that. The house itself is fine red brick and three stories tall. It doesn't match her idea of a retired bounty hunter, that's for certain.

Presently a wizened, white-haired butler opens the door, looking exactly like someone who works for a lord. "Good evening, sirs," the butler says in a British accent. Deryn's eyebrow lifts. Sounds exactly like, too. Blisters; how'd he end up in _California_? "May I help you?"

County runs a hand though his hair. "Heya, Reginald. Is Bowler in?"

"His lordship is indeed in residence, Mr. County. Shall I inform him that you wish an audience?" "Yeah, thanks. Oh, and – tell him it's urgent."

The butler bows and closes the door again.

"It'll just be a second," the marshal assures Deryn and Alek.

And indeed, only a few moments later, heavy footfalls rattle the cut glass. The door is abruptly yanked open and James Lonefeather, alias Lord Bowler, manhunter, appears in the doorway of his fancy house with an embroidered napkin tucked into his shirtfront and a deadly glare etched into his dark-skinned face.

Deryn has been glared at by all sorts of experts in the art, most notably Count Volger. She's given quite a few champion glares of her own. And yet even she can't resist an inward flinch.

Partly it's because Lord Bowler is barking _huge_ ; she has to tip her head back to look at him properly.

And partly it's because he's barking terrifying.

" _Brisco_. I shoulda known it'd be you," he snarls, snatching the napkin from his shirt and crumpling it in one massive fist. "Haven't seen you in half a year and now you interrupt my dinner with a bunch of dang kids!"

Deryn and Alek both take a half-step backwards. It's instinctive.

"Hello, Bowler," County says, unruffled. In fact, he's smiling. "How've you been?"

"Fine," the man says. He's still glaring. Deryn sees why he was never bothered about his nickname; this fellow could dress up like the sodding Emperor of Japan, take a stroll through the middle of New York City at midday, and no one would dare say a word. "Well? What'd you want? My _supreme de volaille aux champignons_ is gettin' cold!"

The marshal says, "Professor Wickwire's been kidnapped. We could use your help."

Bowler blinks, looking momentarily concerned – but only momentarily. Then the scowl returns. "He sure causes a lot of trouble for an old man."

"First off, Bowler, he's not that much older than we are. And second – come on, it's not his fault he was kidnapped!"

"Yeah, and I _might've_ agreed with you the first _five times_ it happened!"

Alek says, alarmed, "This has happened before?"

Lord Bowler says " _Yes_ ," at the same time County says, "Well... kind of."

"Different reasons, same damn results." The bounty hunter turns his scowl onto Deryn and Alek. "And who're these kids anyway?"

"Oh, right. This is Alek, who used to be a prince, and Dylan, who used to be a midshipman." County turns and gives the two of them a wink. "Boys, this is Lord Bowler, who _used_ to be the best tracker in the West."

"I still am," Bowler snaps immediately. "All right, fine. Come in and sit down while I get my things. But don't touch my Lalique crystal!"

He turns and storms into the house. County follows at a more leisurely pace and gestures for Deryn and Alek to do the same.

"Where's Lenore?" County asks Bowler's back as the larger man disappears down a hallway framed by bookshelves and glass-faced china cabinets.

"Visitin' friends in Hard Rock," he calls back.

"Give her my best, will you?"

"I will!" comes the distant, snarled response. Then a door slams.

Some of the china rattles in the cabinets.

"I think that vineyard's been good for him," County says to the butler, who's unobtrusively shut the front door behind them and is now standing patiently, hands folded, ready to be needed. "He's a lot more mellow."

Reginald is too dignified to smile, but he does sound pleased: "Indeed, sir."

Deryn peers about the foyer. Lord Bowler must be more of a Darwinist than not, because there isn't any Clanker gadgetry to be seen beyond a grandfather clock and some table lamps. The curio cabinets, picture frames, and furniture have the smooth, organic curves of fabricated wood... and all of it looks barking expensive.

"Careful," the marshal says. Deryn turns from examining the dangling crystals of the chandelier to see Alek's gotten too close to a cabinet full of sparkling dishes and _objets d'art_. For a moment, like a reflex, she wonders where Bovril is and if it's not touching some of Bowler's Lalique crystal. Then she remembers.

Those German bastards.

Hopefully, with Dr. Barlow there, Bovril isn't too frightened. Still, it must be overwhelming for the wee beastie, to be separated from her and Alek both in such a violent way. It's clever enough to know that the Germans have no good intentions... if they haven't already done away with it.

Impatience itches along her spine and sick anger curls in her guts. She suddenly wants to be _off_ , not idling in a mansion foyer. "How much longer will it be?" she demands.

"Knowing Bowler," County begins – only to be interrupted by a door banging open and heavy footfalls coming towards them. "Right now," he finishes with a small smile.

"Reginald, keep my dinner warm," the bounty hunter orders as he reappears. He's still huge and frightening. Now he's wearing an old black duster with military insignia on the shoulders, a bowler hat with a fancy ribbon around the crown, and enough guns to supply the Committee's entire barking revolution back in Istanbul.

"Yes, sir, of course," Reginald says, bowing.

Bowler turns to the rest of them and snaps, "All right, come on," as if they're the reason for the delay in departure.

But Deryn's not of a mind to argue. They all troop out to the waiting carriage and somehow fit inside again, despite Lord Bowler taking up most of the space. The driver whips up the team, and the carriage rattles into motion.

"There ain't no orbs mixed up in this, right?" Bowler demands of County. He shifts in his seat, possibly because of the enormous shotgun holstered on his back.

The marshal spreads his hands. "Not as far as I know."

"First good news yet," Bowler says, scowling, though none of it makes sense to Deryn. "Now what am I supposed to track and how am I supposed to track it?"

Mr. County briefly describes the situation with the professor and the lady boffin. He spends a long time describing the shoot-out in the Westerfield Club's courtyard, concluding with, "I hit an oil line or something. It has to be leaking like crazy. Just follow the trail."

The bounty hunter _hmphs_. Then he folds his arms over his chest, stretches out his legs as far as he can in the tight space (forcing both Deryn and Alek to squirm aside), crosses his boots at the ankles, and tips his hat down over his eyes. "Knew I shoulda stayed in Napa," is all he says.

And that's all that anyone says for the rest of the ride. They jolt and clatter their way back to the Westerfield Club in grim silence. The fog hasn't cleared any when they draw to a halt in front of the entrance to the Club's ruined courtyard – or, rather, several yards down from the entrance.

There's a bit of a traffic clog at the entrance.

Two of the San Francisco Fire Department's water-carrying elephantines are standing in the street, firemen milling all around the beasties' massive feet. Fire hoses are unrolled and leaking on the cobblestones; no more so than the extra-long trunks of the elephantines themselves, which the beasties are curling and uncurling impatiently.

For that matter, the firemen look fairly impatient, too.

A quartet of them are arguing with the man who's standing in the middle of the courtyard gate, resolutely blocking the entrance.

Surprisingly, Deryn notes as they leave the taxi carriage, it's that weedy lawyer Mr. Poole. _Preserve the scene until we get back_ , the marshal had told him, and indeed he is. Deryn understands why: if they're to track oil trails, they can't have hoses spraying water about and washing it all away. Still, it seems a risk. The fires were mostly out before they left to fetch Bowler, but fires have a way of starting up again, too.

Poole's fierce expression fades into undisguised relief when they reach him. "It'll just be another minute," he tells one of the firemen, sounding like a weedy lawyer again.

"Mister," the fireman says, frowning hard under his helmet and a prodigious mustache, "if you want your own place to burn down, that's fine. But we've got a duty to protect the city –"

Bowler steps up to the fireman and slaps a small leather satchel against his chest. "Here, hold this."

The fireman looks both puzzled and annoyed. "What's this for?"

"To spit your teeth into," Bowler growls, looming over the man, "if you don't get out of our way!"

The fireman blinks. Looks down at the satchel. Back up at Bowler.

"We'll be over there," the fireman tells Poole.

The firemen go stand by their elephantines. County, Bowler, Alek, and Deryn hurry into the courtyard.

"Oh – Mr. Hohenberg," the lawyer says, falling in with them. "Count Volger was taken to the hospital. Nothing serious," he adds hastily. "The doctor wanted more sterile conditions. He'll be back within the hour. And your monkey calmed down considerably once we gave it some strawberries."

"It's a loris, actually," Deryn says.

"Thank you, Mr. Poole," Alek says politely – though Deryn can tell exactly how glad he is to hear that Volger's all right.

"The police have put up roadblocks throughout the city," the lawyer says to County. "But they haven't found a Packard with gunshot damage."

County pulls a face. "We always knew the police would be pretty useless. Bowler, let's do this fast."

Bowler _hmphs_. " ' _Let's_ do this'? _I'm_ gonna be the one doing all the work."

Alek asks, "How does one track an oil leak?"

"I ain't lookin' forward to it, that's for damn sure," Bowler says. He turns to Poole, pointing at the lawyer with one large, warning finger. "And I expect to be well compensated for my time and difficulty."

Poole sputters. "Bowler, this is a matter of national – _global_ – security!"  
"We'll work out details later," County says, elbowing Bowler in the side. "The walker was right here."

Deryn squints at the cobblestones. There's a rather large pool of black oil amidst the chunks of masonry and ash. Well, that's easy enough; but it'll be trickier in the street, where hundreds of walkers are dripping oil every day.

"I can see that, County." Lord Bowler crouches, pushing his duster out of his way. There's a knife sticking from the top of his right boot, Deryn notices, that makes hers look like a toothpick. Despite everything, she feels a brief pang of jealousy. Maybe, when this is all over, she can give it a try.

Bowler touches the oil with a fingertip, then puts it to his tongue. He makes a face and spits a moment later, nearly catching one of Poole's expensive shoes.

The lawyer jumps back with a wordless exclamation. "Sorry," Bowler says, not sounding sorry at all. He rises from his crouch and (followed closely by Deryn, Alek, and Mr. County) carefully stalks the oil spatters to the street, then to the nearest corner, where he crouches and repeats the oil-tasting procedure.

"Yeah," he says, with a predatory, satisfied grin. "Yeah, I got you now." And he sets off down the street.


	5. Chapter ONE, part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The PPIE was approximately how I've described it here (and in Chapter 1 Part 1), though I've made a few changes: the 101 Ranch did not feature a saloon (at least not that I could find), and the Tower of Jewels wasn't used for mooring airships. The PPIE's actual buildings were torn down at the end of 1915, with the exception of the Palace of Fine Arts, which (after a total renovation in the '60s) still stands today.
> 
> Bowler tracked Whip and Dixie across San Francisco via pistachio shells in "And Baby Makes Three". He can track anything! :D

The German spies' Packard passenger walker has several bullet holes in the outer metal skin, viscous drips of oil slowly pooling in the dirt beneath the engine, and a powerful burnt smell of overheated metal.

It sits slightly canted to one side, the side door ajar, the cabin disappointingly – but predictably – empty.

"God's wounds," Alek says, gaping at it. He turns to Lord Bowler and gives a half-bow. The pistol holstered under his jacket shifts with the movement, and he shifts it back as he straightens. The borrowed holster doesn't quite fit, and neither does the gun; truth be told, he has a distaste for the things. He'd much prefer a saber. "I apologize, sir. I didn't believe that you could actually do it."

Bowler _hmphs_ , then pulls a face and spits on the packed dirt of the parking lot. "And I ain't never doing it again, so don't nobody ask."

Deryn, meanwhile, has climbed into the cabin and is peering around. "Bovril's not here," she reports now, hopping down again.

Alek wasn't expecting to find the loris, but he still feels a sharp pang. "They've escaped again."

"Yeah, but they didn't go far. On foot, with that machine and two hostages..." Mr. County has one hand on the carved-ivory butt of his revolver, and the set of his jaw is grim.

"You thinkin'...?" Bowler says, casting a significant glance to the north. County nods. "Best hiding place in the city."

Alek turns to face north as well. They're in the parking area on the corner of Lombard and Steiner. Silent, dark bulks of parked passenger walkers lie between them and the brilliantly lit fantasy land that sprang up, practically overnight, and now occupies the two-mile stretch of land between Fort Mason and the Presidio.

The pride of modern San Francisco. The grand gesture of American imperialism. The showplace of the world.

The Panama-Pacific International Exposition.

"You think that they went in there?" Alek asks, his eyebrows raising.

County shrugs. "Why not? Doctors everywhere, folks carrying strange equipment, lots of people at all hours..."

Bowler hooks his thumbs into his gun belt and looks grim as well. "Real easy to hide in a crowd, kid."

"Barking spiders," Deryn says. She pushes a hand through her hair, frowning in the direction of the Exposition. Fog has shrouded it so thickly tonight that the Tower of Jewels is merely a brighter glow amongst a cloud, its moored airships all but invisible. Likewise, the noise of the crowd inside is audible as a dull tumult rather than anything distinct. "We can't search the whole place!"

"Yeah, too bad Germany doesn't have its own building," Bowler says. "That'd be nice."

All of the American states and dozens of countries are hosted in "pavilions" on the Avenue of Nations. Sweden's building is particularly impressive, as is the Chinese Pavilion; Japan's is nestled within a large garden as well. (The Ottoman Empire has a pavilion but not, sadly, an ambassador's anarchist assistant on staff.)

Neither Germany nor Austria-Hungary, however, are represented – a discreet acknowledgement of the ongoing war.

"Could we alert the Exposition authorities?" Alek asks. There are plainclothes police detectives and the occasional Pinkerton keeping an eye on the facilities.

"If our Germans are hiding out in the Expo, then they've probably got friends in high places," County says, practical. "We don't wanna tip our hand."

Bowler grunts an agreement. "Come on. Maybe we'll get lucky and they had to buy tickets."

The four of them start towards the nearest entrance, at the termination of Fillmore Street into Chestnut. Alek finds himself missing Dr. Barlow's loris and, of course, Bovril. This seems to be the exact sort of situation that lorises were designed for. But Dr. Barlow's loris was far too rattled to be of any real use, repeating only gibberish.

Perhaps he should have brought it along regardless –

County stops short, slapping the back of his hand into Bowler's chest and then pointing at something in the darkness.

Alek squints. The lights from the Exposition make it difficult to see anything, even without the fog. The streetlamps only compound the problem.

But the man who suddenly darts from the shadows towards the Fillmore Street entrance is quite visible. "It's a lookout!" Deryn exclaims, even as Alek recognizes the flash of red as a waiter's waistcoat.

And then they are off in pursuit. Deryn keeps pace despite her knee; Alek has a fleeting worry that she'll end up injuring it more this way.

The Fillmore Street entrance has a ticket agent still on duty. The man is smoking a cigar and leaning against a wall, but he straightens and moves to block the German lookout. The German stiff-arms him and runs past as he stumbles back.

"Pardon us!" County calls to the ticket agent as the four of them go by.

_Turn left_ , Alek thinks at the German, a trifle desperate. Left is the Festival Hall, the Avenue of Palms, the Court of Flowers. Relatively easy places to corner someone.

To the right is The Joy Zone: "amusement and concessions" and the one part of the Exposition sure to be overflowing with crowds.

The German skids, nearly losing his balance along with the flat cap that flies backward from his head... and turns right.

Alek swears.

In the half-second it takes them to reach the same corner, a large group of people emerge from the Ghirardelli Chocolate Company's store, effectively blocking the Zone's sole avenue. They push through, but are separated. Within moments Alek has lost sight of the other three as well as the German spy.

The Zone is a crush. Everyone's trying to see whatever they can before the Exposition closes in a matter of hours, children want to eat and play games, and vendors are pushing for a few more sales. The queue for the Racing Coaster alone probably stretches back to the Irish castle.

He presses on – and someone grabs his hand. Deryn.

"Blisters, I'm glad I found you," she says. She's slightly out of breath and has the German's lost flat cap tucked into her belt.

He squeezes her hand, drawing comfort from the familiar warmth of her grasp. With the both of them appearing to be boys, he really ought to let go, but he doesn't. "Let's find the others."

He and Deryn struggle forward for a while, searching for any of three needles in a chaotic haystack, before she drags him to a halt outside the moving picture theatre (which has been, much to his amusement, showing the latest installment of _The Exploits of Elaine_ ).

"This is daft – give me a lift!" Deryn demands, grabbing the nearest lamppost.

He glances at her knee. "Can you climb it -?"

"I can bloody climb anything!"

Alek quickly laces his hands together. She sets the boot of her uninjured leg into them and pushes off as he lifts. It's enough to allow her to reach the elegantly scrolled bar holding the lamp proper; she hoists herself up onto it with an economical grace learnt on the _Leviathan_ 's ratlines.

Deryn peers out at the crowd while Alek keeps an anxious watch for Exposition officials. She's almost invisible from directly beneath – hidden by the bright electrikal lamplight – but there's no need to be caught where they aren't supposed to be.

Again, that is.

Suddenly she whistles: high, piercing, and loud enough to be heard over the excited screams coming from the Racing Coaster and the Aeroscope. A proper airman's whistle, in other words. Heads in all directions swivel towards her.

"Oi!" she shouts, cupping her hands around her mouth, then points.

Alek stands on tiptoe, but can't see what she does. The most he can make out is a ripple in the crowd where Mr. County and Lord Bowler are pushing their way through.

"Where?" Alek calls up to Deryn. "The barking Ranch!"

He doesn't wait for her to climb down, but takes off across the crowded plaza to the north side of the Zone. The 101 Ranch may be a model of the "Real 'Wild' West", but like all of the Zone exhibits, it isn't that large, and the wall behind it backs onto the grounds of Fort Mason. There are several wharves and multiple roads connected to the fort.

Many exits. Many ways to lose their only lead.

At the entrance to the 101 Ranch, the crowd abruptly ends, and Alek pushes forward into a semi-circle of curiously empty space.

He catches himself. Just in time, too, as he's come across a "Real 'Wild' West" standoff.

The German spy is standing inside the ranch; Mr. County is several paces away, beneath the wooden 101 Ranch sign. The German's hand is hovering near the pistol holstered under his jacket; he looks like a cornered animal, out-of-breath and dangerous. The US Marshal's hands are hanging loosely at his side. He merely looks out of breath.

Lord Bowler is off to the left, casting concerned glances in Mr. County's direction while helping a frail, elderly lady regain her feet. Alek supposes the German knocked the woman down.

"Now, let's not do anything crazy," County says in a calming tone. He lifts one hand – not the one closest to his revolver – and the German spy makes a sudden grab for his pistol –

\- County moves, lightning fast -

\- and the pistol that the German has drawn drops into the dirt some distance away, shot out of his hand with uncanny accuracy.

The spectators erupt in wild cheers. To them, this must seem part of the Exposition – a show staged by the Ranch for their entertainment.

The German (clutching his injured hand) turns and runs, half-falling. Mr. County pursues, heedless of the fairgoers who want to congratulate him further.

Impulsively, Alek chases after them. They pass a small stockade where a few drowsing, docile cows pay them no attention. Instead of trying to scale the whitewashed wall beyond that, the German spy dashes inside one of the Ranch's buildings.

Of course it would be the saloon.

The swinging doors slam against the walls, hard enough to raise dust and rattle glass. Mr. County tackles the man around the legs and brings him crashing to the floor with even greater force. Alek is following rather too closely and nearly ends up adding to the pile.

Instead, he makes a hasty, last-minute sidestep directly into one of the waitresses. Much to his great mortification, both of them are knocked down, sending her tray of drinks tumbling and smashing. To his greater mortification, she is wearing attire appropriate to a Wild West saloon: fishnet stockings, garters, and not terribly much else.

He stammers an apology as he stands, but it goes unheard in the tumult that's engulfed the saloon. Half of the patrons are in the process of making a hasty exit; the other half are gathered around the wrestling match on the floor and are urging them on enthusiastically. The man playing the piano, apparently enjoying the show as well, begins to bang out a merry, jangling song. It makes a bizarre accompaniment to the life-or-death struggle.

God's wounds, if this is anything like the _real_ Wild West...

For an older gentleman, Marshal County is acquitting himself reasonably well. But then the German gets in a lucky punch to County's temple, momentarily stunning him. The spy draws a knife.

He has no clear shot, and he's certain to hit County, but Alek hasn't any choice, either. He reaches for his pistol and then stops, an idea shoving itself forward.

"Behind you!" he shouts in German.

The distraction isn't much; Alek can't help thinking that Deryn would have found a more clever solution. Still, the spy jerks his head around to look, enough for County to recover. He grabs the spy's knife hand and forces it away, knocking the weapon free in the process.

The knife clatters to the saloon's wooden floor not far from Alek's foot. He quickly steps on the handle and draws it closer with his boot, out of the spy's reach, then picks it up.

It's a German-made knife, stamped with an Iron Cross; unsurprising. But something about it catches at his memory. It looks -

"Oh, for Pete's sake," a woman's voice says beside him, lilting and amused and exasperated all at once. She has masses of blonde ringlets, perfect ivory skin, and, while more elegantly clothed than the waitresses, seems to have likewise forgot the majority of her dress. "At this rate we'll be here all night."

She winks one large green eye at Alek, giving the words _we'll be here all night_ an abruptly salacious air. Alek opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself rather at a loss.

On the floor, the German punches Mr. County in the side. He makes a pained noise before rallying and landing a punch of his own.

The woman sighs and produces a small silk reticule. She removes something from it and hands the bag to Alek with a dismissive, "Here, handsome, make yourself useful."

Then she cocks her small, pearl-handled revolver and aims it – straight at Mr. County.


	6. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick shout-out in here to the blacksmithing Schwenke sisters, Ilsa and Katrina, who appeared in "No Man's Land" and "Steel Horses" and seemed to have an... er, interesting arrangement with Professor Wickwire. Or at least Ilsa did. ;) 
> 
> John Bly (the series' Big Bad, played to creepy, reptilian perfection by Billy Drago) kidnapped Wickwire in "Senior Spirit".

Being a hostage is quite tiresome.

Dr. Nora Barlow, _née_ Darwin, has endured a kidnapping, a most uncomfortable walker ride, a march through the Exposition at gunpoint, and now finds herself unceremoniously deposited on the bridge of a vessel that has seen better days.

Her dress is in a state, and her bowler hat – the pride of any fabricator – has been lost somewhere along the journey. Worst of all is the façade she must maintain: that of a helpless, frightened woman who hasn't an ounce of wit in her head now that these dashed men with guns have appeared.

Quite tiresome indeed.

But rather vital to survival.

She glances around the bridge, taking in her new surroundings, then looks over her shoulder. The leader of the saboteurs, Jäger, is preoccupied with the men carrying Wickwire's machine, particularly the man with a large, purpling knot on his temple. Judging from what Dr. Barlow managed to overhear in the walker, the bruise is due to one Mr. Sharp... and the girl's impeccable aim.

_Well done, my dear_ , she thinks, watching the man stagger badly. He will be of little use to his fellows in this condition, and might prove to be an advantage for herself and the professor, in the event of their escape.

 "Would you please let go?" she asks the man holding her by the arm. The quaver in her voice is equal parts deliberate and false. Dr. Barlow does not _quaver_.

 The man – she believes his name is Mueller – leers at her and gives a coarse reply in German.

She bristles inwardly. Outwardly, she feigns confusion and shrinks away, pulling against the hard grip on her bicep. Mueller's leer widens.

"Hey!" Professor Wickwire says, frowning in rebuke. He moves as though to step towards them. The hulking brute manhandling him (appropriately named Braun) checks the elder gentleman with a growl, and Wickwire contents himself with an indignant, "That's no way to talk to a lady!"

The perspicacious loris curled around Dr. Barlow's neck shivers. "Go. No way," it whispers in its small voice.

Indeed, the creature's assessment isn't far off, Dr. Barlow thinks. They are outnumbered and in a location that shall be difficult to escape from, even if they should get away from the armed and dangerous saboteurs – men that have made it very clear that they will not hesitate to use violence.

"Stop playing," Jäger orders in German. "We have more important matters." 

" _Jawohl, Leutnant_." Mueller slackens his grip and Dr. Barlow's breath eases despite herself. She will bear bruises for a while.

The machine is carried onto the bridge, and Dr. Barlow and Wickwire are moved to the periphery, where they shall be out of the way. The Germans begin wrestling the machine into place beside the great ship's wheel, which occupies the center of the bridge. Beyond the wheel, beyond the glass of the windows, the Exposition is a hazy, smeared glow in the fog.

 "I had no idea you spoke German," Dr. Barlow says to Wickwire, in a quiet aside. 

"Oh, I don't speak much," he says. He's watching the machine intently. The Germans set it on the floor with a clatter and clunk, much to Jäger's visible displeasure. Wickwire himself twitches his mustache like a worried father. "Really only what pertains to blacksmithing and, uh... bedroom matters."

She keeps the amusement from her face, and from her voice as well: "I see."

Behind them, Mueller chuckles. It's as pleasant as his leer. Dr. Barlow flinches in his grasp, as though frightened by the sound, and he chuckles again.

_Abominably_ tiresome.

"Say, fellows," the professor says suddenly, gesturing at his machine with a jerk of his whiskered chin, "what exactly do you have in mind for that?"

One of the working Germans opens his mouth to answer, then thinks better of it and looks to Jäger.

Jäger has kept his back to Dr. Barlow and Wickwire – an overt and deliberate slight, she's certain – but now slowly turns. A predatory smile lurks in the corners of his mouth. "We intend to keep it."

Wickwire darts a glance at the machine, then Dr. Barlow, then Jäger. "Well, uh, it's not going to do you much good. Damaged, I mean."

Jäger's focus has not wavered from Wickwire. He smiles; the expression does not reach his eyes. "Yes, _Herr_ Professor. Which is why you are going to fix it. Immediately."

"Huh." Wickwire stands a little straighter, and the muddled vagueness leaves him as he meets Jäger's icy stare square on and says, "To be perfectly frank, I'd rather leave it as it is. I don't think you gentlemen have the best intentions."

Dr. Barlow realizes she may have underestimated the professor. _Bravely said_ , she thinks. Foolish, perhaps, but brave.

Jäger takes a step towards them, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "You will fix the machine." It is not a request.

"No," Wickwire says, cheery, almost giddy. "No, I really won't."

Jäger cocks his head to one side. "You are not... intimidated?"

"No offense, son," the professor says, as if comforting a young and disappointed child. "I've been kidnapped by John Bly himself. Tough act to follow, you know!"

"I see," Jäger says. He takes another few steps in their direction – precise, controlled, like a great cat stalking its prey – and stops in front of Dr. Barlow, rather than Wickwire. There is no trace of desire or perversion in his smile, nor in the way he runs the back of his forefinger along her jaw.

That, perhaps, is what makes it all the more chilling.

Dr. Barlow would very much like to match his cold stare with one of her own, but, conscious of the role she is playing, she closes her eyes and turns her face away, as if she is too terrified to bear his attention.

Jäger says quietly, "How fortunate, _Herr_ Professor, that we have a hostage to your goodwill and cooperation."

Silence for a long moment. Dr. Barlow is strongly tempted to peek. She doesn't.

Then –

"All right," Wickwire says, resigned, and bitterly so. "You have my full cooperation. _If_ you promise to leave her alone and unharmed."

"Of course," Jäger says, his voice light. "There is no need for unpleasantness. We are civilized men, after all."

_Oh, indeed, quite civilized_ , Dr. Barlow thinks cynically, blinking her eyes open and feigning a soft cry of relief. Jäger's line has a practiced ring; it is clearly meant to instill fear, rather than provide reassurance.

It's done neither for Wickwire. The professor is scowling as he removes his jacket and rolls up his shirtsleeves.

Dr. Barlow can't attest to any fear, either. Of course she is _concerned_ – only a fool wouldn't be – but she is hardly afraid.

"Quickly, _Herr_ Professor," Jager says. He withdraws a pocket watch and checks the time, then closes it with a snap. "We need to make our farewells to this great city."

"That's assuming it can be fixed at all," Wickwire says. He crouches next to the machine. "I wouldn't – that was a pretty nasty bump it got."

The injured man touches the large bruise on his head and winces.

Wickwire scratches his chin. "But – hmm – it looks like... Is there a screwdriver?"

One of the Germans brings a toolkit. Wickwire fishes around for the screwdriver, then sets to work. Within moments, it's obvious that he's lost in the project.

"Excellent." Jäger turns a wintery smile on Dr. Barlow. "I hope to keep you in good condition, Doctor, for your presentation to the Kaiser."

She quavers: "I – I haven't..."

He _tsks_. "His Majesty will wish to meet you. He will be delighted to have a Darwin as his... _guest_."

As she suspected, her abduction from the Westerfield Club was no mere happenstance, nor even a convenient sword to hang over Wickwire's neck. For the nonce, she will keep the inventor in line. Ultimately, she will be used as a rallying point for the Clanker nations, and as a bargaining chip, should the Kaiser need such. She imagines the German propagandists rubbing their hands together with glee, like the ham-fisted villains in those movie serials Alek and Deryn so enjoy.

She hesitates, as though struggling for words. In the gap, Wickwire says, "Lift that out of the way, son."

"This? The transmitter?" the German with the toolkit asks, befuddled.

Wickwire waves him off. "No, no, that's the, uh... the..."

"Duplexer," the loris announces from Dr. Barlow's shoulder.

Jäger's eyes shift to the creature. His blue gaze narrows.

Dr. Barlow keeps the consternation from her face. Now is _not_ the time to demonstrate unexpected abilities.

"Duplexer! Yes, that's the word. And it's fine." Wickwire points at the German. "Move it so I can check beneath."

Jäger stares at the loris for a moment longer, then gives Dr. Barlow a shallow and ironic bow. "Doctor."

She says nothing – only touches a trembling hand to her throat and blinks rapidly, holding back entirely imaginary tears.

"Keep him working," Jäger says in German to Braun. To Mueller, he says, "And keep her here as an incentive to the professor."

Braun and Mueller respond with a rough chorus of " _Jawohl_ ," and, satisfied, Jäger turns on his heel and departs, gesturing for the injured man to follow, which he does.

Wickwire does not appear to notice.

Dr. Barlow waits for some minutes – long enough to determine that Jager is not going to suddenly reappear. She pretends to sway in Mueller's grasp.

"I-I'm feeling rather faint," she says. "Might I sit down?"

She has never felt faint in her life.

Mueller thinks about it, then shrugs. He half-drags her to the nearest chair and pushes her down into it. Dr. Barlow cowers (she does not _cower_ ), and turns to face the wall of the bridge, looking as far away from her captor as possible.

Mueller chuckles.

Dr. Barlow begins memorizing the ship's deck plan helpfully attached to the wall.


	7. Chapter TWO: "The Fog of War"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Levianthaneers, Dixie is the BEST. She's Mae West in the Wild West, a good bad girl with a heart of gold, singing in saloons and stealing hearts and getting mixed up in all sorts of trouble, and it's glorious. She went off to China at the end of "And Baby Makes Three"; I'm assuming she didn't stay there for long, since she was due to be a regular cast member in the never-produced second season.
> 
> Wickwire's rubber bullets are put to good use in "High Treason, Part 2".

Jumping from the lamppost may have been a mistake.

Deryn's dodgy knee – twinging earlier from the trek across San Francisco's streets – is now sending up a bright spike of pain with every step. Nonetheless, she hurries through the crowd toward the entrance to the 101 Ranch.

Limping, mind. But _quickly_.

She wouldn'tve jumped at all, except for Mr. County shooting at the German. If guns are being drawn (in the middle of the sodding Exposition, no less), she needs to be with her allies, not perched on a pole like some daft bird.

The excitement seems to be over already; the thick knot of people around the gate is breaking up, going back to the regular Exposition attractions. The German spy, Mr. County, and Alek are nowhere to be seen when Deryn arrives. Lord Bowler, meanwhile, is handing off a wee old granny to a collection of fretful relatives.

"Sorry things got a little rough, ma'am," he says solicitously. He touches the brim of his hat, looking more like a soft-hearted sheriff than a man strutting around with an army's worth of weapons. "You folks enjoy the rest of the Exposition."

The relatives thank him and lead the granny away as Deryn comes to stand beside Bowler.

"Do you know who that nice man was?" the granny asks her family, giddy as a lass. "Lord Bowler, manhunter!"

Lord Bowler, manhunter, stands a little straighter. His eyebrows lift and his mouth stretches out into a pleased sort of expression. Almost a smile.

Then the granny adds, "Brisco County, Jr.'s faithful companion!"

Scowl again.

Deryn clears her throat, eyeing the men hurrying out of one of the buildings. Someone's playing a piano terribly loud – and just plain terribly. "Where did they go, sir?"

"Saloon," Bowler says, gruff. He glances down at her, then down at her knee, and frowns. "You okay, kid?"

Blisters, is it _that_ obvious?

"Aye," she says. "Only hurts when I sing."

He _hmphs_ – approvingly, she thinks – and draws the sawed-off rifle strapped to his back. "Brisco and His Highness got back-up in there, but we might as well be the cavalry."

"Aye," she says again, then realizes what he's said: "D'you mean there's someone else –" The sudden sharp, flat crack of a gunshot cuts her off.

"Aw, damn," Lord Bowler says.

And then they're both running for the saloon, fast as they can. A fresh wave of men are scrambling out, making for a difficult swim against the tide. Bowler reaches the swinging doors first and bursts inside with his rifle leading the way and a revolver close behind.  
Deryn dodges around a stumbling, portly man with a florid face and drink spilled down his shirtfront, and then she, too, is inside the saloon, her rigging knife in her hand.

It takes a moment to understand what she's looking at.

A flock of barely-dressed waitresses is scattered around the room, some of them clutching trays to their considerable chests. The German spy is sprawled on the floor unmoving. Mr. County is dragging himself to his feet, leaning on a barstool to do so. Alek is unhurt (there's a relief) but has one hand around a knife and the other around the wrist of a blonde-haired lady – who herself is holding a small derringer.

Of course, judging from the garters, fishnet stockings, and décolletage on display, "lady" might not be the right word.

Lord Bowler, however, seems to know exactly what's about. He lowers his guns, releasing the hammer on the revolver before returning it to its holster, and touches his hat brim with a pleasant, "Miss Dixie."

"Hello, Bowler," the lady says, equally pleasant. She arches an eyebrow at Alek, who hastily lets go of her wrist and steps back, nearly as red in the face as that portly man had been.

"Barking spiders," Deryn says. Where to sodding _start_?

They've got the lookout, at least. And it doesn't seem as though any more fighting's likely to happen soon.

She tucks her knife away again, telling herself it's daft to feel disappointed about that.

Marshal County gestures at the German spy and then at the lady, saying crossly, "A little close, don't you think, Dix?"

"Nice to see you too, Brisco," the lady retorts. There's a lilt to her voice that matches the sashay in her step as she moves to County's side. She takes his arm, nestling against him, and nods in Alek's direction. "It would've been a little less close if Junior here had kept his hands to himself."

Now, _that_ sounded pure dead indecent.

Deryn gives Alek a look. He flushes scarlet and says, "I thought she meant to shoot him. Mr. County, that is."

"Don't worry about it, kid," County says. He grins at the lady, who dimples and bats her eyes. "This is Dixie Cousins. She has that kind of reputation."

Deryn reckons that Dixie Cousins has a reputation, all right. She coughs, getting everyone's attention again.

"Is he dead?" she asks. Crouching seems a bad idea right now, given her knee, so she nudges the German's body with the toe of her boot. There isn't any blood, but there might not be, with a bullet that small.

The lady waves off the question. She sounds amused and faintly bored: "Oh, he's fine. It was loaded with rubber bullets."

"One of Wickwire's inventions," the marshal adds, pointing a thumb in the general direction of elsewhere.

"Why use rubber bullets?" Deryn asks. She crosses her arms over her chest and lifts an eyebrow of her own. "Seems daft."

"Mm. In my line of work, I'm constantly surrounded by powerful, dangerous men." Dixie lets go of Mr. County's arm to pass the derringer off to a waitress, who takes it as though it's a dead rat. The lady smirks at Deryn, then slides an unreadable glance towards the marshal. "A smart girl always carries a few rubbers."

The marshal gives her an unreadable look right back.

"Uh," Bowler says. He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, I'm sure that's a real good idea."

Dixie puts her hands on her hips. "Now, would somebody mind telling me what's going on?"

County says, "Professor Wickwire's been kidnapped, Dix."

The lady presses a hand to her chest. It's a melodramatic gesture, but the sentiment seems genuine. "Oh no! What happened this time?"

_This time_. Deryn cuts a glance at Lord Bowler, who catches her looking and raises an knowing eyebrow, as if to say _What did I tell you?_

County says, "German spies disguised as caterers blew up the Westerfield Club library, then grabbed the professor, Charles Darwin's granddaughter, Wickwire's latest invention, and their monkey." He jerks a thumb in Deryn and Alek's direction.

"It's a loris, actually," Alek says.

Dixie doesn't appear to hear the correction. She says to Mr. County, "What do you need me to do?"

"Does this place have a back room?"

The lady nods. "My office."

The marshal scratches at the back of his neck. "Can we, uh, borrow it?"

Dixie scoffs. "Boy, you sure are something, Brisco. Oh, fine, why not."

"Got anything to restrain him?"

The lady _hmms_ and lifts both eyebrows, a small smile playing on her painted lips. She turns to a cluster of waitresses that have wandered close, the better to peer at the German spy. And at Alek. And at "Dylan", sod it all.

Deryn pretends not to notice the giggles and fluttering eyelashes. Girls like an airman's swagger; she's used to it. She's used to girls cooing over Alek, too, though she takes a dimmer view of _that_.

"Charlotte, Bertha – get the rope," Dixie orders. "Millie, Violet – go outside and inform any customers that we're closed for a... private party."

One of the girls (impossible to tell if it's Millie or Violet) says, "What if it's the police?"

The lady winks, one side of her mouth curling up. "Distract them."

Millie and Violet flash wicked smiles of their own, adjust their bustiers (down, not up), and saunter out. Deryn glances at Alek. He's staring fixedly at a painting on the wall, but his ears have turned pink.

Clanker. As if he's never seen a girl's chest – but, then again, Deryn has rather less to show than these painted-up sparrows.

"Bowler, gimme a hand," County says. The two men crouch, one at the arms and one at the feet, and pick up the unconscious German spy. They shuffle and lurch towards the door at the back of the saloon.

Dixie starts organizing the other waitresses, directing them to clean up the mess. It seems to involve quite a bit of giggling, coy glances, and artful displays of bent-over bums.

Deryn throws a sharp elbow to Alek's side. "Come on, _Dummkopf_."

"Wait," he says, before she can take more than two steps. He holds out a knife, hilt-first. "What do you make of it?"

She takes the knife from him and tries the balance while she examines it. Aside from the engraved Iron Cross, and a slightly different profile, it looks just like the one in her boot.

"It's a rigging knife," she says, frowning. She flips it over. Not a bad one, either. "Where'd you find it?"

"Our friend was carrying it," Alek says. He glances over his shoulder, in the direction the lawmen had carried the spy. There's some thumping and banging coming from the back room, but nothing too alarming.

Deryn decides there's no point in letting a good knife go to waste, so she tucks it into her other boot. "Blisters, you don't suppose he's on an airship?"

"Or a sailing ship." Alek frowns – either in thought or at the waitresses, Deryn isn't certain. "There are several at the Marina."

That's true enough. Rigging knifes are for rigging, aloft or a-sea. She hasn't been minding the ships docked at the Marina. She does know exactly how many airships are moored at the Tower of Jewels, on the other hand.

"Barking trouble either way," she says. County had ordered a police blockade on all of the roads, but that'll do sod all if the Germans are escaping by sea or air. Of course, no ship would dare set out blind. "Lucky there's all this fog."

Alek nods grimly. "But it can't last forever."

"Here you go, boys," Dixie Cousins says, a coiled length of rope hanging negligently from one gloved hand. She passes the rope to Alek, then produces a small ivory-handled fan and flicks it open with an expert snap.

"Thank you," Alek says. He hesitates, adjusting his grip on the rope, then says, "I do apologize for interfering earlier. I didn't know -"

"And I didn't explain," the lady says, dismissing the apology. "No hard feelings."

There's a lilt and twist on _hard_. Not much – but enough to put a flush across Alek's face.

"Dylan Sharp," Deryn says abruptly, sticking her hand out for a shake. "Royal Air Service."

The lady smirks as she shakes hands, as though she knows something that Deryn doesn't. It's pure dead annoying.

Alek sketches a shallow bow instead of shaking hands. "Aleksander Hohenberg."

"You're that prince who wanted to be emperor," Dixie says without missing a beat. Somehow she makes it sound a trifle wicked.

"Yes – that is, I-I renounced my claim," he says, having trouble with the words.

The lady smiles and runs the edge of her fan along his jaw, as though she's testing to see how ripe the fruit is before she takes a bite. "You know, I used to work for an emperor."

Alek's gears seem to have entirely frozen now, so Deryn says, "Which one?" It doesn't sound very nice. Maybe that's because Deryn wants to punch the older woman square in her painted face.

Dixie makes that little humming noise again. "Of China."

Marshal County appears behind them, no doubt coming to see what's taking them so long to fetch the rope. Deryn's not of a mind to be rushed. She crosses her arms over her chest. "What'd you do?"

"I was the crown prince's nanny." She waves a hand, adding an airy, "But it didn't work out. They thought I might like to be an imperial concubine, and I thought they might like to go to hell." Dixie Cousins turns to the marshal. Her smile widens. "Luckily I had friends to rescue me."

"I seem to remember you did a fair amount of rescuing yourself," County says, a smile playing on his own face.

She _hmms_ , then taps her fan on his chest before turning on her heel and walking away, hips swaying. "Go get your man, cowboy."

His smile grows. "Yes ma'am."

"Mr. County," Alek says, coming to life again. "Dylan and I have something that might be a clue."

The marshal looks at Deryn. She remembers the German's knife and retrieves it from her boot. "Rigging knife, sir. Means the bastard could be an airman."

"Or a sailor," County says, quick to draw the same conclusion as Alek. He takes the knife, turns it over in his hands, then gives it back. "Huh. Hey, Dix!"

"Brisco?" she calls back from across the saloon.

"I need some info on every ship down at the docks. Oh, and the airships at the Tower."

The lady puts her hands on her hips. "I have to do everything around here, don't I."

"Only because you do it so well," County says with a grin.

"Ain't that the truth," Dixie drawls, amused. She winks, tosses her golden curls, and slips through the saloon's swinging doors.

County grins after her for a moment, then returns his attention to Deryn and Alek, putting his hands on their shoulders and steering them towards the back room. "Dixie runs a club here in the city. She knows more about what's going on than the police do."

"Brilliant," Deryn says through her teeth. They come into the office – a wee closet of a room, scarcely large enough for a desk and a chair, though Deryn notices Dixie Cousins has also squeezed in a plushly upholstered  
divan and a rack of frilly, lacy clothes.

Lord Bowler has the German spy in a chair, one massive hand pinning the man upright. Tricky, since he's unconscious and slumping to the side. "Finally," the manhunter growls.

Deryn takes the rope from Alek. "I'll do this bit."

Bowler demands, "They tie good knots in the Air Service?"

"Aye," she says, hiding the wince when she crouches. A feather boa hanging from the clothes rack tickles at her neck, and she swats it away irritably. "The best."

"Hands behind his back," County instructs. "And get his feet, too."

One of the waitresses bustles in as Deryn sets to work. The sparrow is all flutters and knowing smiles, apparently unconcerned about the defenseless man they're hog-tying to a chair.

"Can I get you men anything?" she purrs.

"Yeah. A glass of water," Bowler says. "Tall one. Real cold. But no ice." The waitress dimples. "Sure thing, honey."

Deryn finishes with the spy's hands and runs the rope under the chair. She loops the rope around his left ankle and the chair leg, pulls it tight, then repeats the process on the other side. The knots are as neat as the _Leviathan_ 's bosun could ever wish, but she's a barking mess: she has to grab the back of the chair to lever herself upright again.

The feather boa tickles her on the way up, too. Sodding thing.

"Careful," Alek says in a low voice.

"Aye, Your Highness," she snaps, then regrets it straightaway. It's not his fault her knee aches, and it's not his fault these tarts all seem set on flirting with him. He's done nothing to encourage them, and she knows he hates the attention anyway.

She knows the truth.

He frowns at her. She sighs and drags a sleeve across her face.

"Sorry. My knee hurts," she says, instead of _I know I'm daft to be jealous_.

Alek's expression softens. He steps back so that she can take up a spot next to him, off to the side and out of the way of the lawmen. "Perhaps you should rest it."

"Aye, when this is over," she says. She bumps her hand against his. "I'll spend all day in the hotel room."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "That sounds reasonable."

The waitress returns just as the German makes a soft groaning sound. Once again, she doesn't bat an eye. But if Dixie Cousins is running some sort of shady nightclub, it stands to reason her employees wouldn't fuss over such things.

"Here you go, darlin'," the waitress says sweetly, handing Bowler a tall glass of water.

"Thanks," he says. She sashays away. Bowler takes a sip of the water.

"How is it?" County asks.

"Ahh. Nice and cold," the manhunter says. He takes another sip, smacking his lips appreciatively, then steps forward and dashes the water into the German's face.

The man comes awake with a gasp and sputter. His arms jerk against the ropes, likely trying to get a hand up to wipe off his face. Deryn watches the realization of his circumstances dawn on him – tied to a chair, surrounded by his enemies and a heap of feathery, frilly costumes.

She also notices he's not going anywhere. Too right he's not.

"Hi," County says, perfectly friendly.

The German blinks water out of his eyes.

"Didn't catch your name earlier," the marshal says, with a wide and harmless smile. He sits on the divan, facing the spy. "I'm Brisco. Brisco County, Jr. And you are...?"

The German looks around at the rest of them uncertainly. "Schultz," he says. He has only a faint accent. In a city beset with an International Exposition, no surprise it had gone unnoticed, even in a room stuffed full of boffins.

"Schultz! Good to meet you. I'd shake hands, but..." The marshal laughs as if it's all a grand joke. Bowler laughs too, and – unseen by Schultz – makes a looping gesture at Deryn and Alek with one hand, his meaning clear: go along with it.

Blisters.

Deryn laughs, but it trails off quickly; Alek never gets much beyond a forced smile.

After a moment, Schultz gives a few uneasy chuckles. If the object is to make the man think they're all pure dead mad, she reckons they've succeeded.

County leans forward, resting one elbow on his knee, still grinning like a cat in cream. "Schultz, ol' pal, we've got a problem here, and I think you might just have the solution."

Schultz shakes his head. "No. I know nothing."

"Nothing at all, huh?"

He shakes his head again, more vehemently this time. "Nothing."

County slaps his knee and turns around, pointing a thumb back at Schultz. "Go figure, Bowler. We grabbed the one guy who doesn't know anything. What are the odds?"

"Huh," Bowler says in mock astonishment. "Seems downright unlikely."

"You know, it does!" Another round of hearty laughter.

Deryn exchanges a glance with Alek. _Are they mad?_ He lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

County turns back to Schultz. The German flinches slightly, leaning away from the marshal. "Maybe he just doesn't know how to say it in English. Uh, Your Highness, care to help?"

Schultz's eyes lock on Alek, who seems surprised to be singled out. He gives the marshal a hard look, but then turns to the spy.

"If you know anything," Alek says in German, giving it some of Volger's haughtiness, "I would suggest that you tell them."

"I don't know anything," Schultz says in the same. "Even if I did, I wouldn't tell our plans to my enemies... or a traitor such as yourself, _Prince_."

The last bit is spat out, like Schultz can't stomach the taste of Alek's old title. Alek doesn't react, but Deryn bristles, and her fingers tighten into fists. Sodding bastard. She should've made those knots tighter.

"That sounds like a no," County says.

" _Sounds like_ we ain't got no use for him," Bowler says.

County slaps his knee again and stands. "All right, Schultz, I guess it's time to go."

The German blinks. "You... you are... releasing me?"

County waggles one hand side to side. "Mmm... yes and no. We're going to let you go –"

"Right into the bay," Bowler barks.

Schultz echoes, uncertain, "The bay?"

The manhunter steps forward and grabs the man's shirtfront, tipping the chair onto its two front legs. "With alla them _sharks_ ," he growls, his upper lip curled up and displaying quite a lot of predatory teeth.

Schultz goes pale.

"Can't turn you loose in the Expo," County says, reasonably. "I mean, not that you know anything about the spies who took Wickwire, his invention, and the lady doc, but there's always a chance you might run into them."

Schultz looks from County to Bowler and back again, clearly trying to decide if they're mad enough to do it.

"The water is very cold," Alek says in German. He and Deryn know this from experience; after being warned by the folks at the Inn, she'd dared him to shed his boots, roll up his trousers, and wade out alongside her. Their feet had been barking blue after a few minutes, but then they'd had the fun of warming each other up again.

"You might freeze to death before the sharks find you," Deryn adds, using German just for the small fun of surprising the two lawmen.

Schultz wets his lips. "I think... I remember something."

County's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh really."

"Yes, I – I do. I remember."

The marshal sits again and crosses his legs, balancing one ankle on his knee. "I dunno," he says, lacing his hands together over his stomach. "Seems pretty convenient, Schultz ol' buddy."

"He's lying," Bowler snaps. "We ain't got time for this, Brisco."

"No, no!" Schultz says, straining forward against the ropes. (Still not giving an inch, Deryn notes.) "Our leader is Jäger. _Leutnant_ Hans Jäger. He is – a specialist – I don't know how to say it – he came here to – to kidnap the professor. Germany needs his machine."

County _tsks_. "I'm not convinced. Bowler?"

Bowler makes a rumbling sound.

" _Bitte_ ," Schultz says. Desperate. "Please. Jäger will leave the city tonight, with or without me."

"When? How?"

"I don't know. I don't! The others know more – he never trusted me. God save me, he was right," Schultz adds in German, voice cracking in defeat.

County's dead serious now: "By airship or boat?"

Schultz shakes his head, shoulders slumped. His hair was slicked back at the start of their chase, but it's falling into his eyes now. The man's unraveling, in more ways than one. "We came on a boat," he says to his bound feet. "The _Santiago_ , out of Guatemala."

County exchanges a glance with Lord Bowler. "Okay," County says. He stands, brushes off his hands, and points at the German spy. "You bought yourself some time, Schultz. Wait here."

Schultz begins to laugh, bitter and hopeless, sagging against his restraints.

Deryn and Alek file out after the lawmen, leaving the German spy alone in the office, his laughter now mixed with half-swallowed sobs. She shuts the door behind them without so much as a squick of pity.

The chase is on again.


	8. Chapter TWO, part 2

Alek, Deryn, Lord Bowler, and Marshal County return to the main part of the saloon to find it clean, swept, and empty of waitresses – though it has not lost its proprietor.

Miss Dixie Cousins is leaning back against the bar, a position which puts considerable emphasis on her chest, much to Alek's chagrin. He has, on the whole, done an admirable job of adapting to life amongst Darwinists, but this casual flaunting of... assets... is not within his experience.

Uncomfortable, to say the least.

Miss Cousins raises a folded piece of paper between two gloved fingers and extends it towards County as the four of them approach. "You owe me dinner," she says to County.

"Thanks, Dix," he says, reaching for the paper.

She pulls it back, out of his easy reach. "Not to mention dessert," she adds.

County grins at her. "I thought that was a given."

A secretive smiles curls her mouth as she gives over the paper. "Mm, promises."

There's very little attempt to hide the amorous subtext to their conversation, and Alek finds his ears heating. He resolves to stay out of saloons in the future.

The marshal scans the paper, saying after a moment, "The _Santiago_ 's still docked."

"May we see that?" Alek asks, before Deryn can. He tilts the paper so that Deryn can read it as well, though they both know the details regarding the airships.

In addition to numerous Darwinist airbeasts – which the Germans are highly unlikely to use – there are three Clanker airships currently moored at the Exposition.

The _Golden Gate_ is for Exposition tourists brave enough to venture higher aloft than the Aeroscope; it takes a turn about the city several times a day. The _Calafia_ and the _Libertador_ both have their home ports in Mexico, and have shown up in the last week. None of the airmen speak English, and Deryn's attempts at Spanish were ignored. (Alek, knowing full well the miserable extent of his own Spanish, hadn't tried.)

"We can't rule out those boats, but my bet is one of the airships," County says. "Faster getaway, harder to track."

Bowler hmphs.

"It certainly won't be the _Golden Gate_ ," Alek says, suddenly grateful for all the loitering around airships that Deryn has insisted upon this week. "Their fuel tanks haven't the capacity for a trip farther than a few kilometers."

"Good point," County says. "Okay. That leaves the other two. Since the _Golden Gate_ 's moored at the Tower of Jewels -"

Deryn interrupts: "The _Golden Gate_ 's not at the Tower."

County looks at her sharply. "It's not?"

"Aye, it's at the airfield for overnight repairs," she says. "Had a bit of trouble with an engine today. All the handlers were blethering about it – the beasties don't care for the engine smells."

"Oh, _brother_. That's not suspicious at all," Dixie Cousins says, dry.

"So which one of them things is floatin' around up there?" Bowler demands.

An excellent question. "Schultz was carrying a rigging knife," Alek says, frowning. It seems less of a clue, now. "But it had no markings on it beyond an Iron Cross."

"That's about as inconclusive as it gets," County says.

Deryn shrugs. "Either ship's capable of making Mexico without refueling, at the least."

"Fifty-fifty chance." County drums his fingers on the bar top for a moment, brow furrowed. "Dix, take some of your girls and check out the _Santiago_ , just in case."

Dixie Cousins rolls her eyes. "Nothing like a night on the docks. You're going to check the Tower?"

The marshal nods. "And then the airfield."

"Let's quit talkin' about it and go do it," Bowler says, one hand on the revolver hanging from his waist.

Alek agrees. He follows along as the bounty hunter heads for the swinging saloon doors, Deryn close behind them.

Outside, the 101 Ranch is calm: nothing more than sand, sleeping cattle, and the hazy glow of electrikal lights. Two waitresses are leaning over the gate, gaily flirting with passersby. It looks as though the mad crush of the Joy Zone is finally easing.

Perhaps this signals a turn towards good luck for their search. Alek doubts it.

"Would you really have tossed him into the bay?" Alek asks Bowler as they wait for Mr. County on the porch's wood slats.

The older man makes a noncommittal noise. "Mighta dunked his head in once or twice. Just to prove the point."

"He deserved it," Deryn says, crossing her arms over her chest, glaring in the general direction of the gate. "Bum-rag. How'd he know you, Alek?"

Schultz had addressed him as _Prince_ , and in a tone that implied the German spy knew exactly who Alek was. "I'm not certain," he admits, though that's not entirely true.

Her face creases in worry, and she steps closer, dropping her voice: "Are they still after you, d'you think?"

He takes a breath. The idea has been playing at the edges of his mind for most of the evening, and he isn't surprised that Deryn has drawn a similar conclusion. Since renouncing his titles and joining the Zoological Society, he has been relatively safe from German agents: he is much too visible as a honorary director to make an easy target.

However, he is still the son of the late Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and Volger has assured him that there are still factions in Austria that support his claim to the Imperial throne – something that no doubt troubles the current emperor and his German allies.

"If they are, it's of no concern now," he says quietly. "We have to rescue Dr. Barlow and the professor."

"And Bovril," she says, nudging his side with her elbow.

He gives her a half-smile. "Yes. Most importantly, Bovril."

"Aye."

Bowler snorts and mutters something about "damn monkeys" before striding towards the gate. The two waitresses straighten at his approach, calling and waving greetings.

Where is Marshal County? Alek turns to see what's keeping the older man.

Inside the saloon, County has stopped just short of the swinging doors. Dixie Cousins is saying something into County's ear. He jerks back, startled, and she catches his arm again.

Deryn puts a hand on Alek's shoulder, making him look away. She says, impatient, "What're they blethering – oh."

Alek looks back to see that Mr. County and Miss Cousins are now kissing. Rather passionately.

He turns around again, resolutely ignoring the heat in his ears and face.

Deryn laughs. It isn't her usually vibrant, merry laugh – things are too grim for that – but it's welcome all the same.

"Clanker," she says.

"It's unseemly," he says.

She grins at him, teeth flashing against the darkness. "Aye, that's not what you said when –"

"Yes, of course," Alek says more loudly than necessary. He coughs into his fist and walks quickly for the gate. Deryn laughs again and catches up to him, though he notices she's limping as she does.

Marshal County joins them at the gate a few moments later. "All right," he says. "Time for a zeppelin chase. Let's get the lead out. Ladies," he adds, nodding at the waitresses. They giggle and step aside to let the four of them through the gate.

Well – they let County and Bowler through the gate. Alek's arm is neatly trapped by a pair of silken gloves. Deryn gets the same treatment from the other waitress.

"Be careful, sugar," the one holding his arm says, a touch more breathlessly than the situation calls for. Her eyes are wide – but not guileless.

Deryn's captor lightly taps the tip of her nose. "Don't ruin these handsome faces."

"Barking _spiders_ ," Deryn says with a scowl, swatting the girl's hand down and tugging her arm free.

"Ah - thank you, miss," Alek says, trying to extricate himself without overt rudeness.

"It's Millie," the waitress says in a purr. She winks at him and lets go. Both waitresses blow kisses as he hurries after his compatriots.

They make their way back across the Joy Zone (the Ghiradelli Chocolate building remains hopelessly crowded) and turn up the Avenue of Progress, then onto the Avenue of Palms. Ahead, the Tower of Jewels and its tethered airship dominate the night.

Aside from dozens of large electrikal lights, the Tower is covered with ingeniously simple, striking decorations: thousands of so-called "Novagems" in every color of the rainbow. The Novagems are mere glass, but pretty enough in the artificial light – and positively dazzling by day.

Like everything else at the Exposition, Novagems are offered for sale. Alek had thought to buy one for Deryn before they leave. Set in a ring, perhaps – though perhaps not.

They slow as they near the Tower, keeping to the shadows cast by the Exposition buildings. The marshal and the bounty hunter draw their guns; Mr. County signals for silence.

The airship is moored on the other side of the Tower, and its occupants should be unable to see them. More lookouts, however, could be stationed anywhere.

County and Bowler exchange a series of frowns, nods, and impatient hand gestures before the bounty hunter slips off.

Lord Bowler, as it transpires, can move with astonishing stealth.

Alek looks at Deryn, who lifts an eyebrow and shrugs. They wait in increasingly strained silence for what feels like an eternity. Then a man's strangled cry is cut off before it can properly begin, and County returns his revolver to its holster with a deft twirl and a broad grin.

"All clear, boys," he says. He strides out to meet Bowler, who's dragging an unconscious man behind him with little effort.

Bowler deposits the unconscious man at County's feet like a very large and ill-tempered dog returning from the hunt. The man's jacket falls open to reveal a red waistcoat.

"Found 'im hiding inside the stairs," Bowler reports, lip curled in apparent disgust for the spy's poor job at concealment. "There might be more on the way up, but I highly doubt it."

Two men left as lookouts; how many waiters had been in the library? Six? Alek tries to remember but finds he can't. He'll attribute it to cracking his skull and not to being hugely distracted, at the time, by the thought of sneaking off with Deryn.

"Good work, Bowler," County says. He tips his head back and squints at the Tower. "You kids have been here before? What's the best way up?"

"The stairs," Deryn says immediately, pointing towards the arched entrance. "The lift's shoddy."

It's true; the lift is scarcely large enough for three, vibrates alarmingly for the entire journey, and is only used by the very old and the very young. Alek and Deryn have taken the stairs on their visits. And yet...

Alek looks up at the enormous height of the building – floor after floor of winding stairs, over 132 meters tall – and then at Deryn. Her face is white, her jaw is set, and his heart sinks.

God's wounds. She'll walk up every flight.

"All right," County says, drawing his revolver with one hand. "I'll go first. Bowler, you cover the rear."

"Uh, hold on a minute," Bowler says. "I ain't climbing alla them stairs."

County frowns. "What? Why not?"

"I'm old, Brisco," the bounty hunter says, a plaintive note entering his voice. "I retired. I got a bad back. I can't do all this running around no more."

County flicks a glance at the German spy sprawled on the ground, then at Bowler. "Uh-huh."

"I'm taking the elevator," Bowler declares.

"Uh-huh," County says again, this time amused. He jerks his chin at Deryn and Alek. "In that case, take one of the kids with you. It's dangerous to go alone."

"Like I need a prince to babysit me," Bowler snarls. He spits on the ground and barks, "Sharp! Get over here."

Deryn frowns, then opens her mouth, clearly in a mood to argue.

"Just humor him," County says.

" _Bitte_ ," Alek says quietly. A simple please – but what he really means to say is _Don't injure yourself for the sake of pride and your disguise._

Or perhaps _God's wounds, no one doubts that you're brilliant, now get in the damned lift._

She levels a glare at him, but says, "Aye, all right."

He knows he's right to insist when, walking over to the lift, she can't hide her limping.

"We'll handle any _surprises_ waitin' up there," the bounty hunter promises, hand curling around the butt of his rifle as the latticed doors close. The lift lurches and rattles upward.

"Bowler's a big softie," County says. "But don't tell him I said that."

Alek winces despite himself. "Right."

"Let's get this taken care of," he says, gesturing at the spy.

Alek and Mr. County wrestle the unconscious German into a nearby maintenance closet. The marshal grabs a street-sweeper broom before shutting the door, then wedges it bristle-side-up beneath the handle and brushes off his hands matter-of-factly.

True to Bowler's prediction, there are no additional Germans waiting in ambush on the stairs. Alek and the marshal make their way up easily.

The observation deck, as Alek had learned on his previous visits, doubles as a lobby of sorts for the airship passengers. There are scrolled benches made of fabricated wood for the infirm, and grand floor-to-ceiling windows in each of the four walls. Frescoes cover the ceiling: wind gods, cherubs, and fanciful airships tumbling in a sea of clouds. The artist, in Alek's opinion, had rather more enthusiasm than talent.

The real airships moor to the spire that tops the Tower. Passengers load and unload via a jitney that is, for all intents and purposes, identical to the ill-fated one Alek had briefly used at the Empire State Building the previous year. Outside, a cleverly engineered platform retracts and extends to accommodate the jitney without spoiling the Tower's profile.

Overseeing all of this is a control room, reached by a spiraling brass staircase in the far corner of the observation deck. Deryn had immediately talked their way into the control room on their first visit – more for his benefit than hers. He'd found it less interesting than the walkers in the Palace of Transportation, but it had been a thoughtful gesture, and he'd expressed his gratitude sometime later. In a more private setting, of course.

Deryn is waiting near the main stairs when Alek and Mr. County arrive.

"Alek," Deryn says, starting forward as soon as he clears the last step. Her face is creased with worry. "We found this when we came in."

The object in her hands is a boffin's bowler hat. Dust and dirt are smeared across the crown, as though it's been knocked off its wearer's head and sent rolling across the floor.

"It's Dr. Barlow's," he says, somewhat unnecessarily.

"We're in the right place," County says, also unnecessarily.

Bowler's heavy footsteps rattle down the spiral staircase. "Yeah, the telegraph's been smashed. Wires cut, too."

"They didn't want anyone calling for help," County says. "Huh. Too bad. Did you check on the, the whatchamacallit out there?"

"The jitney," Deryn says. "Aye. It's on the platform."

"Second lookout must've brought it back from the ship," Bowler says.

County crosses to the door that opens onto the platform and frowns thoughtfully at the jitney. "How quiet is this thing?"

"More quiet than a rocket," Alek says drily. More seriously, he adds, "It would be difficult to hear from the gondola until we were fairly close."

The marshal frowns harder. Then he comes to a decision of sorts, turning to Bowler. "Go back down and telephone Socrates and the cops. Oh, and Dixie too."

Bowler makes a disgruntled face. "All right, but don't start nothin' till I get back."

He heads for the stairs, not the lift, and seems to have no difficulty with them, if the swiftly disappearing clatter of boots is any indication.

"Alek, you know about mechanical stuff, right?" County asks. "Check out the jitney while we're waiting, make sure they haven't sabotaged it."

This seems reasonable, so Alek ventures onto the platform to examine the jitney. A wind cuts at him, surprisingly cold and heavy with the scent of brine. The airship is floating almost directly overhead; it and the Exposition below are dreamlike in the fog and the reflected light from the Tower. He has a moment of unease, imagining a German with field glasses and a compressed-air rifle watching him from the gondola.

Then he realizes that he's all but invisible: with the great spotlights aimed skyward, he's hidden in the shadows.

He wonders if Bovril is all right. Germans aren't known to be especially kind to fabricated -

God's wounds. "Just look at the _verdammt_ jitney," he tells himself.

He checks the engines first, then the propellers, then the controls, without once looking over his shoulder at the looming airship. That done, he returns to the observation deck. Deryn and County are both sitting on benches – Deryn sideways, legs stretched out.

"All systems go?" the marshal asks.

"Yes," Alek says. Deryn swings her legs down and shoves over on her bench; Alek would prefer that she continue resting her knee, but he sits beside her anyway. "I imagine the lookout planned to return before the ship departed."

"Hmm," County says. "Probably."  
Heavy footfalls on the stairs. County is on his feet in a flash, one hand on his revolver.

But it's only Lord Bowler. "Cops are on their way," he informs them, not a whit out of breath. His back seems fine.

Deryn looks between the two lawmen. "So we're... waiting, then?"

County shrugs. "Well," he says, "we _could_ climb aboard the jitney, hovering perilously hundreds of feet above the streets, gambling our lives on the slim chance that no one will notice us. Then, if we get aboard without plunging to our certain, fiery deaths, we'll have to sneak around, disable the highly-trained German secret agents one by one, free the professor and Dr. Barlow, and wrest control of the airship before they can send it crashing into the thousands of innocent bystanders at the Exposition.

"Or," Mr. County adds, sitting again, "we could just wait for the police."

"I vote for that second plan," Lord Bowler says, nodding and pointing at Mr. County.

How long will it take the police to reach them? It seems a dangerous course of action to do... nothing. "What if they get away?" Alek asks.

"How? No airships will fly in fog this thick. We'll stay here and keep an eye on things, then make a move once we have reinforcements." Mr. County leans back and props his feet up on the bench facing his. "Keep it simple, kid."

Deryn frowns in distaste. "Seems a bit anticlimactic."

Bowler snorts.

Alek glances at the large window. He can see his own reflection in the glass; the airship lurks above them, unseen.

County clicks his tongue. "Relax. The only things flying tonight are bats."

Alek thinks of the horrid fléchette bats aboard the _Leviathan_ and suppresses a shudder. That's all this "adventure" needs – flying monstrosities careening around, unseen by human eyes. He knows, courtesy of his employment by a Zoological Society, that the bats' ability to find their way in the dark is entirely natural, and not a result of Darwinist fabrication. Still, there's something uncanny about -

_A **Chiroptera mechanika** , as it were,_ Dr. Barlow's voice says in his memory, followed by Professor Wickwire's voice exclaiming, _Exactly, my dear!_

_Chiroptera_. Bats.

"The professor's machine," he blurts out. "That's what it is!"

"Huh?" Bowler says.

"Dr. Barlow's loris gave us the answer before we left the Club," Alek explains, thoughts racing along, almost outstripping his English. "It repeated a conversation between Dr. Barlow and the professor. She called his invention a ' _Chiroptera mechanika_ ' – a mechanikal bat. A machine that can see in the dark!"

"Barking _spiders_ ," Deryn says. She shoves his shoulder, grinning. "That has to be it!"

Mr. County frowns, but it seems to be only because he's thinking deeply and quickly, as he also nods and shakes a finger at Alek. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah! Using sound to navigate. If the Germans had a machine like that, they could attack anywhere, anytime. Weather wouldn't matter – daylight wouldn't matter. Everyone would be sitting ducks."

" _Damn_ ," Bowler says.

"We need to get on that airship," County says. "Right now."

"I'll go aboard," Deryn says immediately, rising. "Shouldn't be too tricky to disable the bloody thing – just pull some wires here and there, aye?"

"No," Alek says, just as swiftly, coming to his feet as well.

She glares at him – and then the point becomes moot as, high above them, the airship's engines turn over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bowler's sawed-off rifle is nowadays called a "mare's leg", but that term wasn't coined until _Wanted: Dead or Alive_ aired in 1958, which kept me from using it here. Fun trivia: Lord Bowler's rifle lived again onscreen in 2002, as a prop for the show _Firefly_. 
> 
> Novagems really were for sale at the PPIE, some costing an exorbitant $1.50! Today, a Novagem in good condition can set you back a couple hundred dollars. A Novagem with a certificate of authenticity? You're looking at a cool thousand.


	9. Chapter TWO, part 3

" _Damn_!"

Deryn has never agreed with Lord Bowler more. The bloody Germans have Professor Wickwire's "mechanical bat" machine to guide them: if they sail off into the fog now, no other airship will be able to follow. She whirls from the observation deck's window to face Alek. "You and I both go, then."

"Now hold on just a minute," Marshal County says, indignant. "I'm not sending a couple of kids to fight enemy soldiers. I'm going with you."

Deryn checks on the airship; it has yet to unmoor. _Waiting for the jitney_ , she realizes. The Germans still think the two men they left behind as lookouts are coming along.

That buys them some time. "Aye, all right, but leave your guns."

"The hydrogen will ignite if you fire," Alek explains, shedding his pistol.

"Believe it or not, Your Highness, they did mention that at Harvard, once or twice." County unbuckles his gun belt and passes it to his fellow lawman. "Bowler, coordinate with the police once they get here. And for Pete's sake don't let them shoot down that blimp with us on it."

"Right," Bowler says, grim-faced. "Be careful."

County claps him on the shoulder, then follows Deryn and Alek out onto the landing platform. The wind is blowing in from the sea, hard enough to make her glad of her jacket. She feels something being tugged at her waist and realizes it's Schultz's flat cap – the one he lost at the entrance to the Joy Zone.

That gives her an idea. A barmy one, but still.

She jams the cap onto her head and draws Schultz's knife. "Hold still, Alek, I'm going to take you hostage."

He looks up from the controls, startled. "Why on earth -? Oh. To fool anyone watching our ascent."

She grins, pleased at his quick understanding, and moves behind him. She puts her arm around his shoulders, blade angled toward the soft of his throat.

"Guess that makes me a hostage too," County says, stepping onto the wide deck of the jitney, hands raised in apparent surrender. "Okay, boys, take 'er up."

Alek's hands hesitate over the controls, prompting Deryn to whisper, "You can pilot this, right?" It's a far cry from Mr. Smith's gyrothopter – or a Cyklop Stormwalker, for that matter.

"Of course I can," he replies, arrogant as an emperor. Then, under his breath: "I hope."

The jitney's engines come to chugging, whirring life, and it lifts from the Tower platform with a lurch that sends Deryn staggering sideways a few steps. She barely nicks Alek's neck at all.

" _Scheisse_!" he hisses.

He can't see her wince. "Your fault, _Dummkopf_."

"Hold it steady, kid," County says to Alek, face conveying more than one level of meaning to the message.

Alek says nothing, though his knuckles tighten around the controls.

Out in the Bay, the Scintillator barge lights sweep through the air; some of the fog seems to be boiling off, though not much. Deryn resists the urge to crane her head back and watch the _Libertador_ grow closer.

If she was in Jäger's place, where would she put her agents? At least one on the bridge, one with Wickwire, one with the lady boffin... and one, maybe two, to welcome the jitney aboard.

Barking spiders. Are the Germans canny enough to realize she's not one of their mates returning with additional captives? Did Schultz even sodding _have_ blond hair? She can't remember; she wasn't looking at the man's hair.

Heart thudding, nerves thrumming with anticipation and the tricky business of not jabbing Alek in the throat (again), she's ready for a proper brawl as they draw even with the gondola's small cargo hold, its door open and waiting like some beastie's maw.

"Schultz!" a man shouts from the hold. He's barely visible in the glow of the ship's interior electrikal lights, and with any luck Deryn is too. In German, he adds, jolly, "Brought some friends, have you?"

Deryn ducks her face. "Thought it couldn't hurt our chances," she calls back in German, dropping her voice as low as she can without sounding ridiculous. "The prince might be a waste of hydrogen, though!"

The man laughs – but not for too long. "Send out the gangplank! Jäger wants us underway!" He steps aside. Alek fumbles with the levers and the jitney's metal gangplank extends with a clank and rattle.

"A waste of hydrogen?" Alek demands of her. The imperious tone is back.

Deryn shrugs.

She can just make out the shadow of the agent crouching to secure the gangplank. Suddenly, there's a commotion inside, and the man's shadow disappears. Deryn forgets she's a German agent with hostages and runs across the gangplank, hard behind County. Alek hastily does something with the controls before he follows.

But by the time they enter the hold, the actual German agent is sprawled on the aluminum floor, unconscious, red waistcoat belly-up. There's an older, purpling bruise on one temple, and a fresh swelling on the other. Standing over him, wrench in gloved hand, is Dr. Nora Barlow.

"I don't suppose you've brought my hat," Dr. Barlow says to Deryn and Alek, who shake their heads. She sets the wrench on a crate and dusts off her gloves, prim as a minister's wife. "Pity. Mr. County, I presume?"

"Yeah," County says, glancing from her to the unconscious agent and back again. One of his eyebrows hikes up. "It's, uh, lovely to meet you, Doc. Where's Wickwire?"

"And Bovril?" Alek asks, before Deryn can. 

"The professor is still on the bridge, as is the loris. It leapt from my shoulder as I was being removed." Dr. Barlow clears her throat, briefly turning her face away from them. It's difficult to see, given the poor light, but for that moment the lady boffin looks... pained. "Quite nonsensical of it."

"Blisters!" Deryn exclaims. "We can't leave it up there! Or the professor," she adds, not entirely an afterthought.

"Or the professor's machine," County says. "We need to get up to that bridge, pronto."

"Of course," the lady boffin says. She picks up her skirt delicately, as if she's about to negotiate a muddy lawn. "This way."

They make their way through the wee cargo hold. Most of the space is taken up by a gyrothopter reeking of fresh paint and fuel; odd for a civilian airship. Deryn reckons Jäger brought it aboard. No weapons on it, though.

Then they're climbing through the hatch into the gondola proper: the bottom level, where the crew can go about their business without disturbing the passengers. The corridor is just wide enough for two abreast, if the marshal turns a half-step sideways. He and the lady boffin take the lead – or rather, Dr. Barlow takes the lead. She seems to know exactly where she's going.

There isn't anyone about – not even lurking in shadows or scuttling around corners. And hard as Deryn may try, she can't hear anyone moving on the level above them.

"Where is everyone?" she asks Alek in a whisper. 

He shakes his head. "Perhaps Jäger has them all on the bridge."

The agents, aye, but the airmen? Not bloody likely. She looks around warily.

"End of the line," County says in a low voice. They come to a stop at the base of a ladder leading to a sealed hatch. "What's above us?"

"Passengers' dining," Dr. Barlow promptly replies. "There's a short corridor that leads past the galley and directly to the bridge." 

The marshal tips his head back and puts his hands on his hips, studying the hatch. "How many agents were with Jäger before you were, ah, 'removed'?" 

"Discounting my 'escort' – who has been thoroughly dealt with, I assure you – there are only two," the lady boffin says. She smoothes her hair with one hand. "Walther, I believe, and a rather despicable character named Mueller."

"Armed?"

"Obviously."

The marshal drums his fingers on a ladder rung. "All right, here's Plan B. I'll take point. Doc, you're going to watch our backs – maybe see if there's a frying pan in the galley, you seem pretty handy with blunt objects. Dylan, you still have that knife?"

"Aye," Deryn says.

"Once we get in there, I'll handle the Germans. You and Alek are going to grab the professor and that monkey of yours, get to the jitney, and get the hell out of here. Doc, you'll go with them."

Alek frowns. "What about you?"

"If everything goes according to plan, I'll be right behind you." The marshal quirks an eyebrow, wry. "Three against one, kid. Not the worst odds I've ever had."

_That's all well and good_ , Deryn thinks impatiently, but - "Aye, but what of the crew?"

"The crew?"

Alek nods. "The airship arrived with a crew from Mexico."

From behind them, a man's voice says, "Jalisco, to be precise."

It's not an unpleasant voice, and the faint German accent is upper-class enough to be reminiscent of Alek's, but as she turns, a chill runs down Deryn's spine all the same.

Likely that's to do with the compressed-air pistol aimed at them. Or the pair of frozen blue eyes beyond it.

"Doctor," Jäger says. He's wearing a red waistcoat, and now that Deryn gets a good look at him, she thinks she can remember him carrying a tray in the Westerfield Club's library... though she doesn't remember getting a cold shiver down her spine just from the look on his face. Warm as a winter gale, he says, "I underestimated you."

The lady boffin doesn't turn a hair. "Indeed. A common failing amongst your sex."

Jäger tilts his head, very slightly, to the side, acknowledging the lady boffin's point. The pistol never wavers. "If I may -? How did you manage to escape the sergeant?"

"A trifle, really." One corner of her mouth twitches, very faintly. "Brains over Braun, as it were."

It takes Jäger a moment to get it, and when he does, his face tightens in disdain. Evidently he's not keen on wordplay. "I see," he says coolly. Then he reaches over to a electrikal box on the wall and pushes a button.

"This is the bridge," a man's voice says in German, crackling with heavy static.

"We are leaving immediately. Full power to the engines," Jäger says in the same, without taking his attention from the group in front of him. "Mueller, gather the crew and the professor in the cargo hold. We have stowaways."

" _Jawohl, Leutnant_."

Above and all around, the ship's frame vibrates as the engines change pitch. Bollocks.

"And Sergeant Walther," Jäger adds, his voice growing colder yet. "Report belowdecks."

" _Jawohl_!" A burst of static, and then the communication box falls silent.

The aluminum decking beneath Deryn's feet tilts. The Libertador is free of the Tower's mooring mast and turning south.

Bollocks! Going from bad to worse.

Jäger takes a fresh grip on his pistol. The barrel still hasn't moved. At this range, he'll hit one of them, no matter what – and at this range, it's likely to be fatal. "Your Highness," he says to Alek. Mockingly. "I am collecting all manner of gifts for the Kaiser, it seems. First a Darwin, and now a turncoat prince."

"I shouldn't count on that," Alek says in German, narrowing his eyes.

Jäger smiles. "Unfortunately for your companions, they are not quite as valuable. But they will serve as an object lesson, at least."

Just then the hatch opens and Walther clambers down one-handed, pistol ready in the other. He takes up a position behind Mr. County.

Boxed in.

"Excellent," Jäger says lightly. "Doctor, under ordinary circumstances I would spare a lady from this sort of unpleasantness – but as your actions have made clear, you are not to be regarded as a lady. Move."

With that last, merciless word, Walther herds them forward, back the way they came. Jäger grabs Dr. Barlow by the arm and positions her in the front. His pistol is now aimed at her upper back. Deryn has no doubt that he'll pull the trigger in half a second, without feeling a squick of remorse.

"So much for Plan B," County mutters behind Deryn. She's not certain he meant for anyone to hear.

The back of Alek's hand brushes against hers, once, twice, three times. She hooks her little finger around his before moving away. 

She's not going to fret. They'll be fine. There's a way out of this, she's certain.

But they reach the cargo hold without any ideas or opportunities presenting themselves. Mueller and two of the Mexican crewmen are waiting. All three are carrying compressed-air pistols. Neither of the crewmen seem perturbed by the winds whirling and buffeting through the cargo hold now that the ship is underway.

The downed German agent, still unconscious, has been dragged off to the side, where he'll be out of the way. Professor Wickwire is sitting on one of the crates near the gyrothopter, his hands tied behind his back and Bovril huddled tight against his neck.

The professor lifts his head and exclaims, "Brisco!" at the same moment Deryn and Alek say, "Bovril!"

County says, "Heya, Wickwire."

Bovril makes a high-pitched squeak, but doesn't move. The poor wee beastie seems pure dead terrified.

"We're in quite a pickle," Wickwire says, looking around the hold.

County looks around as well, pulling a face as he does. "Ah, yeah, you could say that."

Jäger barks orders in Spanish, and the two crewmen grab Alek and Dr. Barlow, pistols pressed firmly against their sides. Walther and Mueller shove Deryn and County towards the open door and the still-attached jitney.

"Now, fellows," County says, the voice of pure dead reason, "is this really necessary? The jitney's right here. You can let us go. I mean, you're holding all the cards – the machine, the professor, the lady doc, hell, even the prince."

"A noble effort. But no." Jäger motions, and Walther and Mueller stop. "You are less dangerous to my plans if you are dead. Line them up," he adds, talking to his agents.

Walther and Mueller push Deryn and County into position just before the gaping hole of the cargo door, then take up firing stances on either side of Jäger. It's obvious that they mean to shoot them and toss their bodies out.

Insult to injury, that.

But the marshal's not done yet. "At least let the kid go. He's not even old enough to shave, for crying out loud. How dangerous to your plans can he be?"

"As I have recently been reminded," Jäger says, inclining his head in Dr. Barlow's direction, "it does not do to underestimate one's opponent." He raises his pistol and aims it at County's head.

Deryn glances at Alek. His face is a white mask, tight with dread.

She wonders what her own looks like.

"Before you die," Jäger says, "tell me your names. I prefer my reports to be as complete as possible."

Deryn's heart is hammering like mad, and if she lets herself acknowledge that it's fear, she's done for. So she spits on the aluminum decking – only because the wind makes it impossible to aim for Jäger – and says, in her best and loudest bosun's voice, "Sod off, you German bastard!"

His smile is pure cruelty.

Beside her, the marshal clears his throat and says calmly, "Brisco County. US Marshal."

The Mexican crewmen holding Alek gives a startled sort of double-take. "Brisco County, Jr.?" he blurts. 

Jäger spears him with a glare. The crewman swallows heavily, and shifts his grip on his pistol, but his attention goes right back to the marshal.

"That's me," County says, unruffled as ever. In fact, there's a faint trickster's smile playing at his face. " _Y tú..._?"

" _Soy el sobrino de Emilio Peña_ ," the crewman declares, and before the words have left his mouth, lifts his pistol and fires at Jäger. 

Jäger moves like sodding lightning, and the shot misses. Beside him, Mueller stiffens and cries out. In less than a blink, everything erupts into chaos.

Deryn misses most of it because she immediately charges forward, intent on getting Mueller's pistol away from him. Mueller's in pain and unsteady on his feet, but as nasty as ever. He lashes out with one fist as she reaches him; she dodges that, but he catches her with a follow-up blow to the side.

Blisters! That sodding _hurts_.

Ribs burning, she manages a punch of her own that clips his jaw and makes him drop his pistol. He staggers back, glares, and throws a wild haymaker that she ducks easily. His momentum carries him forward, showing her the bloodstain spreading across his back.

Too late they both notice that this is all happening barking close to the open cargo door. He tries to stop himself, arms windmilling, but just then there's an especially strong blast of wind, and any balance he might've had is lost.

He disappears with a terrified scream.

Deryn doesn't have time to feel bad – though she's certain she will, later. She scoops up Mueller's fallen pistol and crouches by one of the crates to take stock of what's happened.

One of the crewmen is dead; Alek has his pistol and, with the other crewman (who keeps yelling "¡ _Viva la revolución_!"), is exchanging shots with Walther, all of them taking cover behind crates. Behind a different set of crates, Mr. County is firing at Jäger, who's firing back.

Dr. Barlow, meanwhile, is trying to untie Professor Wickwire – a task made a squick trickier by the bullets whizzing past their heads.

As Deryn is trying to sort out where she can help the most, Alek's latest shot connects and Walther topples backwards, clutching his shoulder.

Two down.

She stands and fires at Jäger. The bullet splinters into the crate beside him; he ducks away, too quick to follow. Suddenly the crewman beside Alek drops with a muffled groan.

And then someone shoots out the electrikal light.

The cargo hold is plunged into darkness. Some light is still leaking in through the open cargo door, but Deryn closes her eyes and counts to ten, slowly, before she tries to pick out any details.

"I would be careful," Jäger says loudly. Impossible to tell where he is; the words echo against the gondola's aluminum hull. "Cornered prey is the most dangerous."

Deryn chooses a direction and hurries over, half-crouched. She tucks up next to Mr. County.

"Should've thought of that a few minutes ago," the marshal calls, derisive, as if this is an irritation rather than a shootout. More quietly, he says to Deryn, "I'm out of bullets. You?"

She whispers, "Only missing one."

He motions for her pistol; she gives it over. Then he makes a shooing gesture. Deryn takes that as a sign that she's to get out of the way, so she creeps towards Alek's position as quietly as she can.

Halfway there, she hears the lady boffin say, indignant, "Unhand me!"

Deryn peeks out just in time to see Jäger raise his pistol and viciously strike Dr. Barlow on the temple. She falls. 

Marshal County manages to hurdle a crate and catch her, but he has to drop his compressed-air pistol in order to do it.

"Never let it be said, _Fraulein_ ," Jäger says to the dazed lady boffin as he grabs Wickwire and hauls him upright, "that I do not learn from my mistakes. Walk, _Herr_ Professor."

Pistol pressed to the professor's temple, the German begins backing the two of them toward the gyrothopter. It's poised for a quick exit, Deryn sees now. The only thing he'll have to do is get the engine running, and he'll be safe away.

Deryn inwardly curses. The Mexican crewmen are likely both dead, County's lost his weapon, and she just has a rigging knife. All that's between Jäger and escape is Alek.

Her prince, of course, has already reached the same conclusion.

As Jäger starts the engine one-handed, Alek steps out from behind his crate, pistol raised. Volger would be pleased: his stance is picture-perfect. 

"Surrender, sir," Alek says loudly in German. Imperial again, with that whipcrack of authority only a born royal can summon. The pistol in his hand is steady. "There's no escape that way. That gyrothopter isn't built to carry two."

Jäger glances at the machine over his shoulder, then refocuses on Alek. He doesn't look like a defeated man. Far from it.

"Indeed," he says coolly. Smirking. "But then, I shall be the only person aboard."

He shoves Wickwire with one hand flat between his shoulders. The other hand closes on the back of his collar as the old man falls forward –

No. On the small animal clinging to the professor's collar. Bovril.

Bovril, who probably knows more about Wickwire's machine than anyone save the professor himself. Bovril, who makes a sound of pure terror, high and keening, as Jäger holds fast to the scruff of its neck. 

In a flash, he guns the gyrothopter's wee engine and lifts away from the floor, so that anyone trying to shoot him will hit the spinning blades of the rotary wings instead.

By the time County and Alek have helped the professor to his feet, Jäger is halfway to the open mouth of the cargo hold.

"Bovril!" Deryn cries.

What she does next is pure dead mad. She runs after them.

Alek yells behind her. She can't hear it over the wind and engine noise. Anyway, she's not barking stopping now.

She reaches the end of the cargo hold and _leaps_.

Her knee wrenches horribly, but then she's in the air and it's all she can do to catch the gyrothopter's port landing strut. One hand, then two, as the flying machine is jerked about by the sudden weight. The wind tears the flat cap from her head. She doesn't see where it goes.

Jäger shouts and takes one hand from the controls to aim his pistol at her. _Blisters_ , she thinks; she's a sitting duck. But the gyrothopter pitches down to port and tucks itself into a spiral, and Jäger needs both hands.

They start to drop out of the sky.

For a moment Deryn's certain he won't be able to pull them out of it. She looks around, trying to see – anything, really, they're spinning so wildly. Fog, airship, water, Scintillator barge, Exposition, city, round and round in a mad circle. It whips past fast enough to leave her attic dizzy, and she has to shut her eyes to focus on hanging on to the bloody strut as inertia tries to fling her off.

Some rescue this is!

Jäger shouts again and the wee aircraft begins to level out. It wobbles a fair bit, but it's going in a straight line once more.

Deryn tries to lever herself up, but her arms aren't nearly strong enough, and she can't find purchase with her feet. Bollocks. At least she can look around now that the world's stopped twirling.

Their fall has taken them over the black waters of the Bay, and she hopes he's aiming for the headlands on the far side, because she doesn't fancy swimming the Pacific.

Over his shoulder, Jäger yells something at her. It's angry and in German, and that's all Deryn gets before the wind tears it to shreds.

Arms and back already starting to burn, she yells back, "Oi, same to you!"

Jäger tips the gyrothopter to port, angling down towards the water. Deryn's legs are going to get there first.

Barking spiders, he means to tear her away.

Just then, Bovril's head appears on Jäger's shoulder; Deryn realizes the German must've stuffed the loris inside a jacket pocket so he could manage the controls. The loris makes a hasty dash for freedom.

Jäger seizes the beastie with one savage motion that simultaneously tips the gyrothopter level again.

"Oi! Hands off our monkey!" Deryn yells, furious – though also relieved that the dive's been interrupted.

Bovril's apparently of the same mind about being so roughly handled, because it writhes wildly, working free enough to turn its head and sink its wee teeth into Jäger's hand.

He visibly curses – quite rightly; those teeth are mostly for fruit, but they're sharp enough to hurt – and loosens his grip. The loris twists and jerks and suddenly pops free.

"Bovril!" Deryn cries.

The wind catches the beastie and tumbles it back towards Deryn. She heaves herself up one-handed and makes a desperate grab, just managing to snag a paw as it whips past. Bovril quickly clamps around her forearm; she quickly clamps both arms around the strut again.

Jäger gives an inarticulate howl of rage and wrenches the gyrothopter hard to port once more, bringing them down to skim the Bay.

Deryn desperately draws her legs up, her knee screaming.

No use. The water tears at her legs like a living creature. She grits her teeth and tightens her hold. Blisters, if she doesn't fall off altogether, she's going to lose her boots and her rigging knife, her only weapon -

Her knife. 

It's not her only weapon. 

Jäger tips too far and the gyrothopter wing glances against the water, sending a vicious shudder through the aircraft. He hastily corrects and brings them level again, which gets her feet out of the water, at least. Deryn shifts her grip on the strut and draws Schultz's knife from her belt.

Then she jams it into the spinning blades of the rotary wing...

...and lets go.

The fall isn't bad, but the landing she could do without.

The San Francisco Bay slams into her back. Knocks the wind from her. Squeezes a black, icy claw around her heart. Everything is dark and cold and she swallows half a lungful of freezing salt without meaning to, and for a long and horrible moment she hasn't any idea which way is up and which is down. Then one of the lights from the Scintillator barge strafes across the waves.

She gives a good hard kick and surfaces, coughing and retching and already shaking from cold. "Bovril!"

"M-Mr. Sh-sharp," the loris says, doing some coughing and sputtering of its own. It's clinging to her jacket.

Where's Jäger? She looks around wildly, bobbing in the waves, getting smacked in the face by one, before spotting his gyrothopter. He's lost the damaged wing altogether. It's smoking and flaming, leaving a great trail for the barge lights to pick out.

Deryn can just barely see Jäger himself at the controls.

Later, she'll wonder if he realized he was doomed. If he didn't make a choice up there, about the way things would end.

Because as perfect as a picture, Jäger's gyrothopter arcs down into the brilliant lights of the Scintillator barge: a tiny flame falling into a raft of stars.

The explosion is enormous. A hot wind races across the water and reaches Deryn with enough force that she has to turn her face.

" _Sic s-semper ty-tyrannis_ ," Bovril says, now perched on her skull. _Thus always to tyrants,_ if her Latin is right.

She hacks and spits. "Aye, beastie."

"W-we're in q-quite a p-pickle," Bovril observes. It's shivering madly.

Treading water in the middle of the bloody Bay at night, with her arms and legs already starting to grow heavy with cold, and all her allies aloft on the _Libertador_? "Too r-right."

She can't possibly swim back to shore. She has to swim back to shore.

She forces herself to kick and stroke, fighting the cold and fatigue and the current trying its best to drag her out into the sea. It's a lost battle – but before she's willing to admit it, Bovril sits up on her head and whistles, long and loud.

There's an answering whistle from surprisingly close at hand, and then a light swings over them, and a boat appears.

Deryn lifts one arm from the water to wave. She shouts for good measure.

The boat slows and comes about in front of her, blocking her view of the fairy-lit Exposition. It's a Clanker vessel, with an engine rumbling somewhere unseen, and five of Dixie Cousins' saloon girls are leaning over the railing, charms prominently displayed. 

"Hey there, handsome! Need a lift?" Violet calls, grinning.

"We'll have you out in a jiffy!" Millie says. Someone casts a lifebuoy over the side, and Deryn loops her arms through the ring gratefully. The girls tow her in, then help her climb aboard. There's rather more helping than climbing.

Once she and Bovril are on deck, the girls bundle them up in blankets and plop them on the tourists' benches. A sightseeing boat, then, "borrowed" from the Marina pier. Deryn hugs the swaddled mass of Bovril on her lap; the beastie burrows into its blanket until it's almost invisible, save for the tip of its wee twitching nose.

Deryn pulls her own blanket tight around her and tries to keep her teeth-chattering to a soldierly minimum – but blisters, she's pure dead freezing. Takes some of the joy out of not being drowned, that.

"Sorry we don't have any hot drinks, Dylan," Dixie Cousins sings out from the helm, her hat feathers blowing madly in the night wind. "This rescue was a little last-minute."

"I have whiskey," one of the girls fluttering around Deryn says, producing a flask from... somewhere. The saloon girls are wearing coats over their work clothes, but there's still not much room for concealment.

"Thanks, Bertha," Miss Cousins says. She pats the ship's wheel. "Come take over, and I'll see to our friend."

Bertha hands the flask to Deryn and heads back to the helm, while Miss Cousins swishes her way to sit beside Deryn. Bovril pokes its head out a bit further; Miss Cousins clucks her tongue and rubs its ears. "What a night, hmm, little fella? That was quite the show," she adds, looking sidelong at Deryn.

Instead of the many comments that spring to mind, Deryn asks, "You c-can p-pilot a boat?"

Miss Cousins gives an elegant hmph. "After a Mississippi paddlewheel, this was a piece of cake."

Deryn glances back at Bertha, who's manning the ship's wheel with a look of complete ease.

Miss Cousins sees the look. Amused, she says, "Oh, Bertha ran off to join the Navy when she was thirteen."

"And I was the best goddamn sailor they had," Bertha calls over the engine noise.

"Until you sprouted those cabbages!" one of the other girls puts in, to general hilarity. Without taking her hands from the wheel, Bertha gives a saucy little shimmy that makes the cabbages in question jiggle alarmingly, prompting further laughter.

"You should be all right as far as that's concerned," Miss Cousins says to Deryn, gesturing at her chest. "Your voice will give you away first."

Deryn looks at Bertha, then Miss Cousins, then at the whiskey flask in her hand. "I d-don't – um -"

Miss Cousins laughs indulgently. "Drink your whiskey, Dylan."

It's sensible advice. She drinks, and offers a wee nip to Bovril. The loris doesn't seem to like it much. It makes quite a few retching sounds and paws at its tongue.

The tourist boat isn't built for speed. It takes some time before Bertha steers them in a great arc around the burning Scintillator barge and the small firefighting boats going out to meet it. The fire is so bright it hurts to look, but Deryn squints and does her best.

No sign of the gyrothopter.

Deryn takes another toss of whiskey, and decides she doesn't want to know, after all, how Dixie Cousins saw through her disguise in a matter of minutes. "How d-did you get out here so f-fast?"

"Mmm. We saw the airship taking off, and I knew someone would end up in the water. To be honest, I thought it would be my husband," the lady adds, rolling her eyes.

Bovril finally stops pawing at its tongue. In a posh voice, it asks, "Your husband, madam?"

"Brisco," she says. Her smile is fond. "We've been married for almost twenty years. Well, mostly married, anyway... don't ask. He never changes, but he always surprises me."

That explains the kiss at the saloon, then. Doesn't explain why she's parading around like a painted-up sparrow... but Deryn reckons that's an ungenerous thought towards someone who just saved her life.

"Almost there," Bertha announces. She pulls a line and the ship's horn toots merrily. A bit out of place, with the funeral pyre blazing away behind them.

Deryn tries not to think about it.

In any event, despite the blanket and the whiskey, she's shaking uncontrollably by the time they reach the Marina pier, which is crowded with Exposition-goers eager to watch the burning barge. Pushing and shoving their way through the mass is a more welcome group: Lord Bowler, Mr. County, Dr. Barlow, Professor Wickwire, and Alek.

"We found Dylan!" Dixie calls to them as Bertha sets the girls to work mooring the boat. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," County calls back, badly out of breath. His gun belt is back, and a battered cowboy hat has joined it. He stoops, bracing his hands on his knees, and inhales several times before straightening again. "The police are with the airship – the crew surrendered. They didn't know what Jäger was up to. I'm guessing that's him out there?"

"And good riddance," Dixie says.

Deryn does her best to disembark under her own power, but she doesn't make a fuss when Millie helps her, or when Violet takes the swaddled bundle of wet loris from her. (Coos over it, too, like it's her own baby.)

And there is a welcome pair of arms waiting to catch her up as soon as her feet touch the pier's wood planks.

"That was mad," Alek says, holding Deryn fiercely, heedless of the damp soaking through her blankets and into his clothes. There's a catch to his voice that he doesn't bother to hide.

"Aye," she says through chittering teeth. "B-brave and d-dashing, too."

He gives a helpless sort of laugh and then draws back just far enough to kiss her, softly, on the mouth. He hates kissing in public, even when she's dressed as a girl, so that one small peck tells her volumes.

"Well done, Mr. Sharp," he says quietly. 

The congratulations are lovely, but she would rather have his brilliantly warm lips pressed against her frozen ones again. That's too much to say, as cold as she is, so instead she nods, works a hand free of her blanket, and tugs him up to her.

She can feel him start, but then his warm hands are cradling her face and he's returning the kiss tenfold. 

Alek's a better kisser than he is a walker pilot, and he's a marvelous walker pilot. If her toes weren't numb, she's certain they'd be curling in her boots.

Dimly, she hears Bowler clear his throat and say, a trifle worried, "Uh..."

That seems to jolt Alek back to his usual sense of propriety. He steps back, though he puts one arm around her shoulders. Deryn isn't embarrassed, even after she sees that everyone is observing them. Most are smiling. Bertha raises her clasped hands and shakes them like a victorious prizefighter.

"Relax, Bowler," County says, giving the larger man a slap on the shoulder. "Dylan's a girl."

Bowler's face scrunches up. " _Huh_?"

"A girl," Country repeats helpfully. He's grinning.

"Mr. Sharp," Bovril says from its place in Violet's arms. It cackles. "Mr. Hohenberg and _Mr_. Sharp." 

"Brisco and that monkey telling the truth?" Bowler demands of her.

"Aye," she says, tugging her blanket tighter. "Though it's a loris, actually."

Bowler tips his hat back, looks her up and down with a suspicious squint, and finally says, " _Damn_." Then he turns to County, scowling anew. "Well, how'd _you_ know?"

"I told him, of course," Dixie says, coming beside County and looping her arm through his. 

"Oh," Bowler says, his ire giving way to a thoughtful look. Then his face screws up again. "And how the heck did _you_ know?"

"Oh, please," Dixie says, amused as always. "I'm a professional, Bowler."

Alek says to County, "Wait. Do you mean that you knew the truth and still let Der- _Dylan_ risk her life?"

"Why not?" The marshal meets Deryn's eyes and respectfully touches the brim of his hat. "I've ridden with grown men who had a smaller set of -"

"Fortitude," Dr. Barlow says firmly, cutting him off. She has her boffin's hat on again; she must've fetched it from the observation deck. Aside from a handkerchief held to her temple, there's no sign of any damage from Jäger's blow. 

County touches his hat brim again, this time in the lady boffin's direction. "Yes ma'am. A smaller set of fortitude."

"As charmingly quaint as these wharves are, Mr. County, certain members of our party could benefit from a physician's care." 

"Nonsense!" Wickwire insists beside her. "I'm right as rain. Oh! But _you_ aren't, are you, Doctor? And neither are you, my boy! Girl! Ha!" He peers more closely at Deryn, delighted. "I still can't tell! _What_ a disguise. Very well done indeed."

"Aye, th-thanks," Deryn says, leaning a bit more into Alek. She shifts her blanket to one hand and holds out an arm for Bovril. Violet obligingly gives the loris over – to Alek.

Close enough.

Out in the Bay, the fire on the Scintillator barge is burning low, and more firefighters are arriving on the pier. Policemen, too, breaking up the crowd. In another few minutes, the fire will be out and the people gone, and it will be little more than another quiet night at the Panama-Pacific International Exposition.

Deryn blows out a heavy breath. The war's over – for certain, this time... hopefully – and everyone she cares about is safe and sound. Meanwhile, she's cold and tired and ready to plant her bum on a mattress for a while. Twenty-four hours sounds grand.

"Come on, let's get out of here," County says to everyone. They do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emilio Peña and la revolución were seen in "Brisco in Jalisco." Dixie piloted a paddlewheel in "Riverboat", but her second career as a nightclub owner, plus her bevy of Young Ladies of Questionable Morals and Many Talents – yeah, that's all me. 
> 
> Oh, and please imagine Mueller falling to his certain, horrible death with a Wilhelm scream. (Google that, if you need to. It's important! :) )


	10. Epilogue

There are camera walkers everywhere.

On the balance, then, Alek is just as glad not to be center stage with Dr. Barlow, Professor Wickwire, and Marshal County, who are, two days after the event, being presented with official commendations by San Francisco's mayor.

However...

"You should be alongside them," he says to Deryn. They and Volger (and Bovril) are standing off to the side of the stage, in a section roped off for special guests. The majority of people are crowded in front; the camera walkers are lined up behind them, practically standing in the Fountain of Energy.

It's a lovely day of blue skies and crisp breezes. The Tower of Jewels, rising behind the stage, glitters most imposingly. No doubt the cameramen are pleased for such a picturesque conclusion to an earth-shattering news story.

Deryn snorts. "I've already got a medal, ninny."

"Entirely superfluous," Bovril says from Alek's shoulder. He reaches up and scratches its ears; it makes a pleased, purring noise and leans into his hand. It seems to have suffered no lasting ill effects from its misadventures, aside from a pronounced desire to cuddle.

He looks at Deryn. She's back to normal as well, although she's leaning rather heavily on the cane the doctor gave her, and there are marks of fatigue and strain around her eyes.

Those minutes after she'd flung herself onto Jäger's gyrothopter had been amongst the worst in his life. Even knowing Deryn's ability to survive all manner of dust-ups, Alek had been certain she wouldn't make it back. Witnessing the Scintillator explosion from the Tower's observation deck had not lessened his fears, to put it mildly.

He hadn't thought he could descend stairs that quickly.

Alek makes a show of sighing. "I suppose rewarding your mad acts would only encourage them."

She grins at that, wide and wolfish. He can't help but smile in return, though it does require ignoring Volger's harrumph.

The wildcount is likewise recovering nicely, though his arm will be in a sling for a while longer. He and Mr. Poole (and Dr. Barlow's loris) had caught up with the rest of the group at the hotel, when the only excitement left to be had was watching Dr. Barlow and Professor Wickwire convince the doctor that he did not, in fact, need to give Dylan a head-to-toe exam.

After making sure Deryn was comfortable in her room, Alek had returned to his and recounted the evening's exploits to Volger, who had listened in stony silence before saying, with a sigh, "At least you avoided flinging yourself after Mr. Sharp, for a change."

Alek has decided to take it as a compliment.

On the stage, Mayor Rolph gives County a gleaming golden medal in a black velvet case – being sure to hold it up for the camera walkers first – then heartily shakes his hand. The crowd applauds and cheers as he readies the medals for Dr. Barlow and the professor.

The newspapers have been raving about the story non-stop: German spies sneaking into the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, kidnapping noted scientists, blowing up the Scintillator...! If the Americans hadn't already thrown their lot in with the Darwinists, this would have been the push they needed.

As it is, anti-German sentiment is reaching an ugly new low, helped along by the immediately well- publicized confessions of Schultz, Walther, and the other captured agents, including a very large and angry Sergeant Braun.

The surviving Mexican crewmen, after a quiet intervention by Marshal County and some government men of his acquaintance, were allowed to return to their country.

"These fine citizens," the mayor now says into the microphone, his voice echoing, tinny, around the plaza, "have done their utmost to protect not only our fine Exposition, not only our great city of San Francisco, but our very nation itself!"

"Barking spiders," Deryn mutters beneath the crowd's applause. She shifts her weight. "Is he going to blether on all day?"

Alek glances at her. Of course, long-winded speeches that must be endured in absolute silence and stillness hadn't featured in her childhood. By imperial standards, Mayor Rolph is an amateur. Alek looks back at the mayor, who appears to be enjoying his time before the camera walkers. "I suppose he is rather verbose."

"A waste of hydrogen," Bovril says thoughtfully.

Volger consults his pocket watch and tucks it away again, deft despite being one-handed. "Regardless of the mayor's speech, we shall need to leave now if we're to make the rendezvous," he says, arching an eyebrow at Deryn, "as some of us are moving slowly."

Deryn rolls her eyes, but not until Volger's back is to her.

Alek manages to stay by her side despite the crowd. He doesn't care for the way she's limping, even with the cane.

Professor Wickwire has promised to make her a special cane – "Full of tricks and secrets," he'd said, before winking avuncularly and adding, "Just like you, young man!" Until then, it's nothing but plain wood and brass.

They gradually make their way to the Florentine Court and the stately Palace of Transportation, where Professor Wickwire will be presenting his invention this morning. After he's done being fêted, naturally.

As previously arranged, Mr. Poole and Lord Bowler are waiting for them under one of the three arches framing the Palace's front entrance. However, there's a woman with them as well.

The woman is smartly dressed, with excellent posture and the merest sprinkling of grey in her elegantly styled hair, and has her arm looped through Lord Bowler's. Alek takes in the affectionate glances between them and swiftly deduces that she must be Mrs. Lonefeather.

_Or perhaps_ , he thinks wryly, _we shall be instructed to call her Lady Bowler_.

"Good morning!" Mr. Poole calls out cheerfully, raising a hand in greeting at their approach. "You're all looking well."

It's a lie, but they thank him politely.

"Don't you look dead proper," Deryn says to Lord Bowler, who is wearing a well-tailored suit in addition to his signature hat. No firearms are in evidence.

Bowler opens his mouth to answer, but his wife forestalls him. "He's not half as uncivilized as he likes to pretend," she says, eyes sparkling, smile wide and warm. She extends a hand to Alek, who's nearest. "Call me Lenore. Very nice to meet you."

Alek bows over her hand instead of shaking it. As friendly as she is, something in her mien seems to demand respect.

"And you must be Count Volger," Lenore says, receiving a polite, if curt, bow in return. She turns to Deryn, and her smile widens. "I've heard a few tales about you, Mr. Sharp. I'm glad to see you're up and around."

"Aye, me too," Deryn says, grinning. She shakes hands, then leans against one of the massive square columns of the arch – removing the weight from her knee, Alek doesn't miss. He takes up a position near her.

"How was your visit to – Hard Rock, was it?" Alek inquires courteously.

"Oh, it was fine. It's just as well that I didn't know James was called into action," Lenore says. She gives Bowler a look. "I've never been partial to the idea of people shooting at him."

Astonishingly, Lord Bowler not only smiles at her, but actually _chuckles_ , the sound deep and somehow sheepish. "Aw, now, I didn't do much of anything. Brisco and the kids handled most of it."

"To judge by your lack of a medal," Volger says, "the mayor is of the same opinion." If he's trying to make an enemy of Mrs. Lonefeather, the count has just succeeded.

"That's nonsense. Why, without you, they wouldn't have even known where the professor and Nora were being held," Lenore says, taking her husband's arm and simultaneously glaring daggers at Volger.

Bowler smiles again, unfazed. He claps Mr. Poole on the shoulder with his free hand, making the lawyer wince. "Yeah, alla that's true – but I got me a nice big check from the Westerfield Club this morning, so that makes me feel a _whole_ lot better."

Mr. Poole steps away, rubbing his shoulder, exasperation curdling his expression. "Your civic-mindedness is deeply touching as always, Bowler."

Alek frowns. _Westerfield_. It's going to drive him mad until he can remember why that name sounds familiar. "Any clues you have in the matter would be much appreciated," he quietly says to Bovril. The loris is

industriously grooming the fur atop its head.

Bovril pauses long enough to give him a long-suffering look, says, "Bubblehead," and then resumes its ministrations.

Alek's frown deepens.

While he stews over mysteries and unhelpful lorises, Deryn and Lord Bowler discuss knives; both of them, it turns out, have a blade tucked into a boot, and happily trade (no doubt exaggerated) stories. Mr. Poole, using all his lawyerly skill, manages to draw Volger and Lenore into a passably civil conversation about wine.

They pass the time thusly for several minutes, until Alek happens to see the rest of their group proceeding down the Florentine Court.

Dr. Barlow is on Professor Wickwire's arm, her loris curled on her shoulder. Marshal County, of course, has Miss Cousins for company. He has also gained a cowboy hat.

Three medals glint and glitter on the chests of their wearers; Miss Cousins has made up for her lack by way of extravagant jewelry.

"This is just the beginning," County is saying to Dr. Barlow as they come within earshot. "I'll bet you that someday, telephones will be wireless. Maybe small enough to carry with you! Wouldn't that be something? – right there in your pocket. Imagine the convenience!"

"Sounds like a damn _in_ convenience to me," Bowler says in lieu of properly greeting his friend. "People wantin' to talk to you all the time, no matter where you are. Never get a minute to yourself."

"C'mon, Bowler, don't be such a pessimist," County says with a grin.

"It's the coming thing," Dr. Barlow's loris says haughtily.

"Indubitably," Bovril says.

There's a round of congratulations, hand-shaking, and, between the women, brief embraces and exclamations over accessories.

"Goodness, Dixie," Lenore says to Miss Cousins, clasping her hand and lifting it, letting sunlight catch fire in her bracelet's gemstones. "What lovely diamonds."

Miss Cousins' mouth curves into a wicked smile. "Well. Goodness certainly had nothing to do with it."

Lenore laughs, as does Deryn. Volger scowls; everyone else looks amused. For his part, Alek does his best not to flush. God's wounds. Even when she isn't trying, everything Miss Cousins says sounds terribly salacious; when she is trying, it's enough to cause a scandal.

"Heya, Dylan," Miss Cousins says, winking at Deryn. She turns to Alek, and her smile widens. "Aleksandar."

"Very good to see you again Miss Cousins," he says, striving for imperial dignity despite the certain knowledge that his ears have gone red.

Deryn elbows him. She's smirking. Blast.

"Well," Wickwire says, rubbing his hands together, beaming, "here we all are at last! And soon – the biggest audience I've ever had! What do you think?"

"I think you'll take the world by storm," Mr. Poole says loyally.

Volger harrumphs, but quietly enough that Alek suspects he's the only one to hear it.

"What exactly is this thing, anyway?" Bowler asks, jerking a thumb at the building behind them. People are beginning to arrive for the professor's lecture, and many cast curious glances at their group as they enter the Palace. "Never did get a clear explanation about that the other night. Just His Highness carryin' on about mechanical bats."

"A machine for radio detection and ranging," Dr. Barlow says. "Isn't that correct?"

"Blisters," Deryn says, scratching at the back of her head. "That's a proper mouthful."

County says, "Yeah, you'll need something shorter, Professor."

Bowler nods. "Somethin' with more zip to it."

"You could keep calling it a mechanical bat," Lenore suggests.

Wickwire frowns, then snaps his fingers and breaks into a wide grin. "I've got it! A palindrome! People love those."

" _Able was I, ere I saw Elba_ ," Volger says drily. Alek glances at him, but the count's face is as impassable as always.

"Uh, sure," County says.

"Radio detection and ranging... R-D-R. Huh. I'll have to add some vowels." Wickwire's face scrunches into a look of deep concentration. "Maybe 'i'... There's something about 'i', isn't there? Futuristic! I met a fellow once in Cupertino, in the apple business -"

"Before I forget, Professor," Dr. Barlow says, smoothly interrupting, "I must say that I was most impressed with your performance during our ordeal. I'm certain things would have gone much worse, had you not kept such a level head."

"Nothing to it, my dear Doctor! It was all fairly routine," Wickwire says, dismissing the experiences of being kidnapped, held hostage, and escaping by the thinnest hair. "Though it did bring back memories of that time Bly grabbed me – golly, twenty years ago now. He wanted me to investigate that, uh, that Orb."

"Orb?" Dr. Barlow asks, one eyebrow lifting.

Bowler groans. "Not _them_."

"Oh! Yes! Marvelous little things. And quite terrifying," the professor says cheerfully. He pats his pockets, clearly looking for something. His face lights up when he discovers a battered, leather-bound journal in his jacket. "Here! I made some sketches. Didn't have nearly enough time to study it – all for the best, of course."

Dr. Barlow accepts the journal and allows Wickwire to show her the appropriate page.

Deryn stands on tip-toe and peers over the scientists' shoulders. "Looks a bit like an underwater mine, doesn't it?" At Alek's questioning look, she adds, "A Clanker one. Big knobby ball."

"How curious," Dr. Barlow says. She holds the page up to better catch the light, and Alek catches a glimpse. It is, as Deryn described, a big knobby ball. _Curious_ is not the word Alek would use.

"More like aggravatin'. Them things ain't nothin' but a pain in the –" Bowler glances at his wife and Dr. Barlow, swallows the last word, and says, "Neck."

"Thank you, Lord Bowler," Dr. Barlow says. "But that isn't what I meant. I find this sketch peculiar because I've seen such an artifact before."

Mr. Poole gives a small, faintly patronizing laugh. "That's not possible, Doctor."

"Indeed it is," she says coolly. "My grandfather had one in his laboratory for many years. He collected it during his voyage aboard the _HMS Beagle_ , I do believe."

"Wait a minute now," County says. "Wait just a minute! You mean to tell us that _Charles Darwin_ had an  _Orb_?"

Dr. Barlow closes the journal and returns it to Wickwire. "Quite."

County pushes his hat back on his head. "Well, I'll be."

Alek looks at Deryn, who shrugs. He turns back to County. "And what is an Orb, precisely?'

"It's uh, it's... I had it explained to me once, by a naked lady from the future, but I can't say that it helped much." County makes a vaguely spherical shape with his hands. "It's kinda like... like a big ball of... uh... timey-wimey stuff. Or something."

Miss Cousins says, wonderingly, "So all of his discoveries... life threads, fabrications..."

"The Orb must have shown him. Huh!" Marshal County puts his hands on his hips and looks around, curiosity and excitement dancing in his eyes. "You know, I wonder what the world would be like if –"

"Why don't we stop talkin' about it before one of 'em shows up and gets somebody killed," Bowler says, glaring at County.

"None of the Orbs ever killed you, Bowler," County says reasonably, as though they're discussing the weather and not something entirely, impossibly mad. "That one just didn't resurrect you. Besides, I went back in time and changed things so you never died in the first place."

"Details," Bowler snarls.

"Hold on," Lenore says, looping her arm through her husband's. Her expression, like her tone, is faintly accusatory. "You never told me about that, James."

Bowler clears his throat and shuffles his feet like a chastened schoolboy. "Uh, it ain't important. We goin' in or what?"

"Oh! Yes, of course, can't be late to my own presentation. Not again, anyway. Ladies?" he says, beaming, extending one arm to Miss Cousins and one to Mrs. Lonefeather.

The two ladies graciously take the proffered arms and proceed into the Palace of Transportation. Volger turns to Dr. Barlow and inclines his head. "Doctor," he says, offering his uninjured arm.

Dr. Barlow smiles, ever-so-slightly. "Thank you, Count," she says.

"Very good of you," her loris says, haughty.

That leaves Alek and Deryn standing with County and Bowler.

"Well, looks like we're just about done," the marshal says, removing his hat and smoothing down his hair in one automatic, well-practiced gesture. "But first... Here, kid, hold this."

He means Alek, who takes the hat as requested.

County draws the medal over his head and extends it so that the gold disc dangles from its ribbon. It winks brightly in the sunlight. "I think you kids deserve this more than I do."

Alek exchanges a glance with Deryn. "We don't need a medal –" she begins.

"Yeah, but you _deserve_ one." County winks and flips the medal into the air as though it's merely an oversize coin. "Catch."

Deryn neatly catches it in one hand, then holds it so that Alek and Bovril can get a better view. The front shows a nude man and woman – obviously allegorical figures – standing in the oceans on either side of Panama and clasping hands. The other side depicts the Tower of Jewels framed by olive branches, with the name of the city and the year printed around the edge.

"Thank you," Alek says, because it's plain that the marshal means for them to have it, regardless of any protestations on their part. He feels – proud. Absurdly so, to be recognized by a famed American lawman.

"Barking spiders," Deryn says, testing the metal with a thumbnail. She looks at County, her eyes wide. "This is real sodding gold."

"Indeed! A fine token of esteem," Bovril says. It mimics Deryn by lightly scratching the gold with a claw. "Indeed."

"You coulda given it to me," Bowler says, disgruntled.

"Actually, if they didn't want it, I was thinking about giving it to Comet," County says, collecting his hat from Alek with a grin. "He'll be put out if I don't bring him a souvenir."

Bowler makes a face. "So buy him a damn apple. He's a horse, what's he need with a medal?"

County pats Alek on the shoulder, Bowler tips his hat to Deryn, and they enter the Palace bickering good- naturedly about souvenirs. They're followed by none other than Mayor Rolph himself, who – fortunately – seems to be too preoccupied with the reporters and photographers dogging his footsteps to have seen one of the day's honorees giving away his medal.

"Shall we?" Alek says to Deryn.

"Aye," she says absently, squinting at the medal. "My Latin's rubbish – what's this say?"

Alek peers more closely. Beneath the two allegorical oceans, in miniscule letters, is written DIVINE DISVNCTA IVNXIT HOMO.

" _The Divine Difference Unites Mankind_ ," Alek translates. Deryn glances at him sidelong, smirking. "That's true enough."

Although he'd been rather looking forward to it all day, suddenly Alek has no patience for the idea of attending Professor Wickwire's grand unveiling – of standing amongst another crowd, packed in between the heat and noise of the Ford walker assembly line and the massive Globe trumpeting America's railroads.

It's their last day at the Panama-Pacific Exposition, and he wants to spend it properly.

"Would you mind if we went to the Joy Zone instead?" he asks her.

She blinks, taken by surprise, then shakes her head, casually tucking the medal into her jacket's inner pocket. "Not a squick. Why?"

He shoves his hands into his own pockets to avoid the temptation of entwining his fingers with hers. "Well," he says, "for one, I should very much like to buy you a Novagem."

The smile she turns on him is full and brilliant – and perhaps a touch salacious. "And we ought to get back to the hotel a wee bit ahead of the others. There's a few things I've been meaning to do there, too, hmm?"

Alek finds he's not finished blushing.

Bovril cackles from its perch on Alek's shoulder.

" _Damn_ ," it pronounces. "Very fancy."

  
. THE END .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wanted to write an "action fic" for Leviathan, and I've always wanted to write any kind of fic for Brisco, period. And now I have! 
> 
> So, Lenore. Lenore Raymond is awesome, and I ship her with Bowler so very, very much. She and her inability to name inventions (on hamburgers: "Well, it looks like a pie, and it comes from a cow... I was thinking of calling it a cowpie.") appeared in "Hard Rock", where she was appointed mayor at episode's end.
> 
> And speaking of mayors: James "Sunny Jim" Rolph, the longest-serving mayor in San Francisco's history, went on to become governor of California in 1931. He appeared as himself in two movies, one of them filmed at the PPIE. 
> 
> The medal described is one of several different types handed out at the PPIE (and in my opinion, the loveliest). There were also commemorative coins for sale.  
> Ford Motors did indeed have a working assembly line at the PPIE; they made about 18 cars a day. 
> 
> The Orbs were shiny, spherical plot devices... _from the future_! They were sent back in time to help humanity make progress or some such. Orb rods could give the handler enormous strength, heal the injured, raise the dead, grant eternal youth, and open time portals. (Or they might, you know, kill you.) According to the show, an Orb is "a man-made electromagnetic wave particle net that captures energy at certain nodal intersections of the space/time grid." High-quality technobabble indeed!
> 
> In the show, only 3 Orbs were sent back in time, all of which were accounted for... but maybe there were a few more? ;)


End file.
